Dear Zack,

Nine days ago, you turned three. I am just now writing about it, and the delay is due largely in part to us marking the milestone with not just a birthday celebration, but rather a birthweek extravaganza. You, in fact, were feted with not one, not two, but three—count ’em: three!—parties. I’m hoping it is only a coincidence that you had as many parties as the number of years being celebrated, and not the start of a tradition, because I don’t feel capable of keeping up with that past, say, three.

The first installment of the “Zack Zahlaway Birthday Trilogy” came on your actual birth date, June 11. We had a little outdoor soirée at our house, which was slightly tricky to pull off, because your Aunt Jamie (a.k.a. Daddy’s sister) married your new uncle, Peter, the night before, and, being the absolute party animals that we are (translation: “knowing that we’d be yawning uncontrollably by 9 p.m.”), Mommy and I decided to stay overnight at a hotel near the reception.

Fortunately, Mommy’s parents (a.k.a. M-M and Popop) drove up from Philadelphia to spend the night with you and Jadyn, and so grateful were we for their help that we rewarded them by making them responsible for picking up, prior to our return Sunday morning, all of the food we had ordered for the party, and then recruited them to help us get the house and yard ready for the event. You’re welcome!

They, as always, more-than rose to the occasion, and the party came off without a hitch. In fact, compared to the one we threw for you last year—complete with a stifling, humid, 90-plus-degrees heat wave (perfect for your then-eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant mother) and a whole gaggle of wet, sweaty, loud, sugar-charged kids who, along with their parents, ended up clustered around the A/C unit in the kitchen—this year’s festivities were downright relaxing.

There were presents aplenty, including your new Jessie and Bullseye dolls, which Disney no longer manufactures, and therefore had to be obtained by way of Daddy scouring eBay like an archaeologist in search of the Holy Grail. Fortunately, I found some new, still-in-the-box models, which were available at a price that suggested the dolls really are alive, and were being held for ransom.

Be that as it may, their arrival seemed to make your Woody and Buzz Lightyear dolls oh-so-happy, and the feeling of satisfaction you felt at amassing the entire leading cast of “Toy Story 2” was evidenced by the way you immediately informed us that we now needed to get you the Buzz Lightyear doll with the retractable wings, because the one we gave you last fall only has a rocket pack on his back. You’re welcome!

Midweek, it was time for party No. 2, thrown by Kathy, your daycare provider. You received from her a yellow Power Rangers doll that is outfitted with what appears to be an entire set of Ginsu steak knives. This alarmed me for several reasons, one of which was the discovery that you even know who the Power Rangers are, and another of which was the conclusion that you’ve been watching them at Kathy’s. Unfortunately, your ownership of this lovely toy has made clear that your fantasy play at daycare largely consists of mock violence. For example, you can imagine my joy when, after arriving home from Kathy’s, you, while playing with your new doll/cheese-grater/toddler-eyeball remover, informed me that “Power Rangers can kill everybody!” Well, yippee!

Subsequent quotables included “I shot you!” and “I shot myself!” two lines frequently repeated while holding as though it were a gun the removable plastic mast from your toy pirate ship—which, incidentally, is about as close as you’ll come to actually owning a toy gun … unless, of course, someone can successfully convince me that teaching children to play with guns is a good idea. (Thanks, toy companies!) I did my best to impress upon you that I didn’t like this—which, much to my surprise, seems to have had an effect on you, as you have several times over the past few days demonstrated that you are now using the mast as a sort of poking device, and have even spontaneously told me, “Daddy, I didn’t say ‘I shot you’ today; I said ‘I poked you.’” I’ll settle for that, pal. The fact that talking to you about it actually resulted in a voluntary modification of your behavior—about which you are obviously proud—is a pretty awesome thing, and I am so hopeful that I experience similar success when, rather than talking to you about toys, I’m trying to guide you around landmines like underage drinking, or driving like a maniac, or riding in a car with someone who has been drinking, or is driving like a maniac, or both, or—oh god, please don’t become a teenager. I’m begging you.

Anyhoo … party No. 3 took place this past Saturday at Chuck E. Cheese’s—or, as I like to call it, Pedophile Disneyland. Not that I saw anyone there who struck me as a pedophile, mind you, but that was one of the thoughts racing through my head as I zigged and zagged around the place in search of you after realizing that you had ducked your mother and I. Definitely a Shitty-Parenting Award-winning moment (one made only slightly less guilt-inducing by the sight of at least three other sets of parents doing the same “Oh, shit, where’s my kid?” routine during your party).

This is where I’d throw in a picture or two from the Chuck E. Cheese bash, but, for the second time in a week, Daddy left the memory card for the camera sitting on his desk. Yes, there’s nothing quite like realizing that you’re toting around a $1,000 Canon paperweight during your sister’s wedding and your son’s birthday party. (Fortunately, the Chuckster sells those disposable cameras, so we should have what I’m sure will be some extremely high-quality shots on hand sometime this week.)

So the partying is now behind us, and you are now a 3-year-old, and I am now realizing how true are all of those “They grow up so fast!” proclamations I’ve heard other parents make … because, damn, dude, you’re growing up so fast!

We’re still working on the potty training, which you finally seem to be getting the hang of—though you’re only down with the “tinkle” part of it; for some reason, you are loathe to give up the apparent joy you experience from having a poop-filled diaper strapped to your ass—a pleasure you often prolong by refusing to let us change you after you’ve filled it. This, I do not get.

That whole “Terrible Twos” thing seems to have been a bit misleading, as the temper tantrums you have been throwing as of late when things don’t go your way have been spectacularly unprecedented. Your ability to go from serene to a full-on crying-and-screaming fit is virtuosic, and I suspect that seismologists on the other side of the globe will soon dispatch emissaries to our home in hopes of discovering the origin of the galaxy-shaking phenomenon that they have no doubt been registering on their seismology whatchamacallits.

You threw one such fit when I was trying to get you into the tub for a bath the other night, and I chose to deal with it by employing the brilliant strategy of completely losing my shit and roaring “STOP IT!!!!!!!” directly into your face … which, rather than making everyone slip into a sudden state of bliss, had quite the opposite effect. You ratcheted up the crying, your sister joined in, and both of you were looking at me as though I was a scary, evil dickhead—which *BINGO* was exactly what I was being. I’m very sorry. The good news is that my latest three-month supply of Wellbutrin has arrived, and I’m also going to start meditating again.

On the plus side, you continue to identify the Red Sox starting lineup by name, and insist that I play music by Van Halen (which sounds more like “Vayoh Halen” when you say it) every time we get in my car, particularly “Runaround” (the “round and round” song, as you call it). In fact, you now tell me, “That’s Sammy singing,” and “That’s Eddie playing the guitar.” I swear, I haven’t pushed these things on you. Seriously. Every time you see a Red Sox player you don’t recognize, you insist I tell you his name, which you then repeat … and, as for the Vayoh Halen thing: you wouldn’t let me take you to daycare the other morning until I obeyed your command to run back into the house and fetch my iPod so that you could hear “the brothers.”

Well, it’s 2 a.m., and Daddy’s wiped out, pal. As always, before I head to bed myself, I’m going to go check on you in your fire engine bed (which you insist on falling to sleep in with a fleece blanket pulled up to your chin, regardless of how hot it is, and subsequently spend the night drenched in sweat; your desire to be in this condition is only slightly less puzzling to me than the aforementioned love of wearing a full diaper). I do this every night, and I often get choked up looking at you while you sleep; you are just a wonderful little boy, sweet as can be, and I can’t believe you’ve already been with us for three years. Suddenly, 18 doesn’t seem as far off as it once did. Take your time, OK?

I love you, Buddy Boy.

Love, Daddy

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