Oona is three years old today. What a Chuckleupicus. Lately I've been ambushing her, Cato-style, when she's done drying her hands and face on the towel I'm holding out to her, suddenly throwing the towel over her head and picking her up and wrapping her in it, all the time exclaiming things like, O no! Why is this happening to me? I'm innocent until proven guilty! and so on. Often she'll repeat the lines in a wailing fashion while she struggles to break free, and last night it was more than amusing to hear her mimic, O no, I want my life back! before rolling out of it and running squealing to her mother.