My son turns three this weekend. THREE! When I look at his face, there is almost no baby left. If I look close at the roundedness of his cheeks and squint juuuuuussst the right way, I can see the infant that I could cuddle at will. But one glance at his thin angular muscled little-boy frame, and all illusions are dispelled. Although he is in the technically correct age frame for it, I don’t even feel justified in calling him a toddler. He does not “toddle” in any sense of the term. He is a scant thirty pounds of rocket-powered running, jumping, independence-declaring preschool little boy. And, by-the-way? Terrible twos? Notsomuch. Three is shaping up to be the year of frustration. I stopped the car TWICE this morning. TWICE I gave the “if I have to stop this car ONE MORE TIME, you are in BIG TROUBLE, little man”. TWICE he got a stern talking to.

The great horribleness of it all is I realized that I had become a wimpier version of my mother. My mother, now THAT’S a woman that could unleash a world of horror on a miscreant. I am purely a poseur of a disciplinarian.

So my son turns three. Which means birthday party – the first “real” birthday party that includes actual guests that are my son’s peers, as opposed to family and parental friends looking for an excuse to hang out and grill and drink margaritas. Of course there will be some of that, or I will not make it through the party. My son’s best friend Keegan, who he no longer sees every day at school, is coming to Harry’s party, and it will be the highlight of the event. Of course, this means Keegan’s mommy is coming, who I know only from Harry’s attendance at Keegan’s party. It’s that whole mommy-playdate-world to which I am completely and totally dense.

In Robbin-speak this translates to real “guests” at the house. This is not something that happens often. Most of my guests are friends, who by inclination or long association, know where I keep all the glassware, the spare toilet paper and feel perfectly free in raiding my refrigerator. These are guests I don’t clean house for. I live in a very casual world.

So, I will sum up:

A real party with real guests.

Which means cakes to be baked.

Groceries to be purchased.

A house to clean.

Activities to plan.

Yard to mow.

Decorations to be fussed over, placed, replaced and abandoned.

All by Saturday afternoon. Oh, and I have to work somewhere in there, because I have a major, major client coming to visit early next week.

And in-laws coming for the weekend.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

If I were my mother, I would drop a sheetcake on the table, have a few paper crowns and candles and turn the kids out into the back yard to play. I didn’t really have birthday parties as a child.

I am not my mother. I am the domesticated, wimpified version.

So I have taken tomorrow off.

And what’s the first thing I will do?

Go to the spa.

Seriously.