When he was two, we tried to block his view of any appliances we were using. Just to slow him down. That was also the year the police came to the door, responding to “our” 911 call. We heard giggling from his crib, where he was holed up with the portable phone.

When he was three, we had to replace the microwave after he vaporized a bunch of bananas. (And don’t even ask me about the time he backed the car into traffic…)

When he was four, I came home to find that not one but three outlets in the kitchen were now smoking black holes. (His father claims he didn’t hear a thing.)

When he was six, he wrote a letter (which I mailed) to the Pentagon demanding an explanation for the rule that six-year-olds couldn’t have their own flamethrowers. Wisely, the Pentagon declined to answer.

When he was eight, I decided TV was not a good influence and got rid of the cable and the antenna. He built a system to “borrow” the neighbor’s signal, which he and his sisters trotted out every time I left the house.

To everyone’s astonishment, he’s lived long enough to become a (reasonably) responsible dues-paying member of society. Who knew?

But some things never change, as his Mother’s Day Card clearly indicates…