Three

I love all my kids...equally.  Though perhaps not at the same time, but that's another post. I love Maggie.  She's spunky and sassy and fun.  She loves babies, animals, tattoos, her blankie, dark fingernail polish, chocolate, coffee, and Johnny Depp.  Yep, she's my kid.  She also love to cuss, and spit, and alternate beating up on her brothers.  She's cuddly and sweet, but she has quills and she won't hesitate to let them fly.  She's got an elaborate, explosive vocabulary.  Here's an example of a few Maggie-isms we've heard lately: "I'm gonna kill those cops....with a sharp knife." (we were watching the Santa Clause on Christmas Eve.  There's a scene where the police actually arrest Santa.) "Hee hee....get off of me before I rip your face off"  (said while I was wrestling with her on the floor) Me: "Maggie, pick up these stuffed animals."  Maggie: "Um, actually, I'm going to suck my thumb." "Where is my f*cking horsey?" Maggie is three, and as much as I LOVE my kids, I do not like three.  Three seems especially difficult for my little curly-haired spitfire.  Maybe we'll make it to four, but I'm sure we'll all be a little scarred, both physically (she packs a mean punch) and mentally (like the mortification that occurs when she lets fly with a "dammit" just as the priest is performing the consecration).  Maggie's always been demanding.  Remember this is the baby the neonatal nurses spent the night bouncing up and dow the halls when she was 12 hours old. This is the baby that screamed when strangers *looked* at her.  This is the child that has always, always been able to look a hole through you.  I'm interested to see what the future holds for her.