One Thousand Ninety-Seven Days
Oh boy-- here goes another quasi-monosyllabic entry, with the possible exception that "monosyllabic" is quite the oxymoron, at apparently five syllables in length.
But, Herr Meow is now three. And I still cannot believe that it's been that long since he was first this cute little pink bundle of flesh and strange noises and soft wrinkly skin, doing strange and confounding things and filling our home with love and chaos. I guess that, much like VH1's bizarre-cum-lame take on the not-yet-completed new millennium "I Love the New Millennium", it's one of those truncated things upon which you cannot have enough perspective.
I mean.... in the same way that one cannot possibly comprehend the meaning, repercussions, and enduring icons of a decade that hasn't even finished, how can one possibly do the same and more with a little person that is both the most important and the most exhausting, demanding, ass-kicking and irritating little person in one's universe?
But anyway-- he is three, and I could not be prouder. And there is no way that I could capture his essence, not even by noting his cute sayings and quirks, or the way he says "hopstital" or "Captitol" or "frigidator" or "punkman" or when he used to beckon us to "you stay me?" when he was smaller. And his laugh just makes my heart flutter.
Okay-- no more gushing. But incidentally, "Shanna Moakler, actor"?? Next thing you know, we'll be seeing "Paris Hilton, entrepreneur".
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