Everyone says that the "terrible twos" are nothing compared to the threes. (What would be a good name for that age? I think they should be the "geez-louise" threes, because that's what I've noticed myself saying more and more as I encounter another catastrophe around every corner. As we rapidly approach Squeege's 3rd birthday, we are noticing that he has morphed into an unrecognizable demon-child, trapped in the body of our once-angelic baby boy.
Today, in my plain view, Squeege decided to scoot a barstool over to the kitchen counter and pull down the Flintstones Gummy Vitamins. I wasn't too concerned about it because the bottle had a child-proof cap. Child-proof is a load of dookey. Squeege must have opened it with ease, because I didn't even notice it while he was sitting right beside me on the couch. The next second I looked at him, he was gulping down almost half the bottle of gummies. I've heard that it can be toxic to ingest too much of the vitamins in them, so I panicked and called 911.
Next thing you know, there was a fire truck, ambulance, security truck, and Grandma Niecy parked in our driveway. Luckily, after examining the contents of the bottle, the EMTs determined that nothing was toxic, and that, worst-case scenario, Squeege will be constipated for a while. But the immediate effects are tempting me to OD on multivitamins. I'd love to have this kind of energy!
Eventually, I had to lock him in the laundry basket. He actually enjoyed it in his "cave," so it wasn't exactly the ruthless punishment I was going for. 
Meanwhile, Garrett was as peaceful as can be in his mini-papasan with his "beer" and his remote control. Even when Spongebob's not on TV, there's plenty of things around the house to keep him entertained.
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