At a friend's birthday party earlier this year, we were lamenting the end of our carefree smart aleck years.

The days when we could say anything we wanted (around people of a similar sense of humor) and not worry about the consequences — the consequences being your 3-year-old picking up the habit and telling you later that evening that tantrums "are just a part of life, Mom, so get used to it."

It's cute when they're toddlers, I guess. But I imagine it spiraling out of control rather quickly: One day you get a call from the 4th grade teacher about the knife fight they started at recess, an elementary school version of West Side Story, and you begin to rethink how funny you actually are.

In our house, though, I'm noticing a different problem. It's not the biting retort that MJ is getting from us. It's what I call Costanzatizing — the art of shouting into another room when you could just as easily speak normally. Randy and I are beginning to sound more like George Costanza's parents on "Seinfeld" every day, and I didn't think we were destined to take on those qualities for at least another 30 years, when our hearing is scheduled to completely tank.

Case in point: One evening a few weeks ago, Randy took MJ outside to ride her hand-me-down Barbie Jeep, which is the most "fly" vehicle you will ever see a 3-year-old drive. It first belonged to a girl, and then to a boy, so it boasts pink wheels and a green-and-brown camouflage paint job. (And for that, I would like to personally apologize to my neighbors.)

We live across the street from our neighborhood pool, where the parking lot is a popular destination for the under-4 vehicular/bicycular set. I might have taken the time to put on my shoes and walk over there to tell my family that their dinner was ready. But instead, I opened the door and did this:

"Hey! Hey!" (waving arms frantically) "Your pizza is ready!"

Randy: (silence)

Me: "Randy! Randy! RANDY!"

Randy (looking cheerfully in my direction): "What?"

Me: "I said, 'Are you ready to eat?'"

Randy (cupping hand around his ear): "WHAT?"

Me: "ARE. YOU. READY. TO. EAT?"

Randy: "Is dinner ready?"

Me: "It's more than ready. It's BURNED!"

And for that, I would also like to personally apologize to my neighbors.

Later that week, at The Home Depot, I was at one end of an aisle with MJ in a cart; Randy was at the other end. I had found what we were looking for, so, quietly, I said, "Randy. Hey Randy. Raaaandddy..."

No response. He was deep into the labels on some sort of home improvement product, which is his favorite type of literature.

No problem. My well-behaved little girl takes matters into her own hands, using a volume level that certainly doesn't qualify as an "indoor voice." She cups her hands around her mouth to form a makeshift bullhorn and screams, "Hey Ranny! Hey Ranny! We found it! Did you hear me? We found it!"

And we all laughed. Know why? Because she is 3. And because it was cute. For now.

Beth McNichol appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom.com. You can read more about her at MotherBunker.