Ice Cream Seizures and Chicken Dances

Harry's three.  Yeah, so there's that.  I guess the "baby weight" excuse finally has to be retired.  Anyway.  We started the celebration early with a little La Parilla goodness on Friday night (mostly because Mommy and Daddy (and Miss Carrie, and Aunt Mamie and Mr. Brian) desparately needed margaritas.

Harry devoured an entire basket of chips and his quesadilla and was rewarded with a birthday brownie sundae, whiiiiiich, I think he enjoyed:

I mean, that's some ice cream love. 

Birthday get together Saturday night with fabulous McEntyre's Oreo Scream cake (good gracious that thing is fabulously horrible for you).  Presents, more ice cream, and one spectacularly annoying birthday card, again, compliments of Mamie and Brian:

Yes, that's the chicken dance.  No, he doesn't do the chicken dance.  Yes, I think he's clogging.  No, Ellie is not invited to the chicken dance party.  Yes, that thing will be in the trash once I'm able to pry it from his chubby sleeping hands. 

So, four trucks, three books, one RACE TRACK(with racing trucks no less), and a talking Boris the Stegasaurus, and what do we play with over and over and over and over and (just kill me now) OVER again?  Yep, chicken dance card. Grrrrrrr.

Happy birthday Meaty Feet.  You're certainly entertaining!