THIS is it.

Right now.

This IS it.

Three. Three is the age that I would want to redo if I could. Three is the perfect age to be alive.

The most upsetting thing that can happen when you're three is to be told "no" when you want to boogie down to a little High School Musical.

When you're three, it's gloriously fun to yell, "Momma pooped!" each and every time you wander into a public restroom.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a perfectly acceptable, and preferred, lunch for someone who is three.

When you're three, a kiss is just a kiss, and it's hysterical when you give the wettest, most sloppery kisses you can.

A productive evening for a three-year old is when you get to chase the dogs, play a game on your computer, AND dance around in your tutu.

If you're three, it's cute when you try to tell a fib, especially since you're not very good at it.

You can pick your nose when you're three, and convince all the world that it's funny if you get caught in the act.

Proving you can spell "stop," "dog," AND your own name is just cause for a party when you're three.

Three is a spectacularly fun age to be alive.

But since I can't go back and be three again, I'm going to chauffeur around someone who is, and I'm going to act like it's my job to make sure she gets to go to all of her favorite places. Because it IS my job to make sure she gets to go to all of her favorite places.

33 isn't all that bad either.

And to think, I thought two was as good as it could get.