Three is the New Two

When my son was two years old, life was a breeze. I thought the "terrible two" thing was a myth, the stuff of legend, and I revelled in the thought that I had gotten away clean without a blemish or bruise to show for my son's toddler-dom.
Then he turned three.
Ah, the fateful third birthday cast a pall upon my world.
I'm sure I'm not the only mother who has felt betrayed by my son's newly found sense of independence. I have been the main caregiver each and every day of his unfettered life, and now I want only to bind him in something sticky and sturdy until the day he shall turn four.
We try to go shopping...where is that kid?
We try to go to the car ... hello? Son? Are you anywhere in the tri-state area?
We try to go ... anywhere ... and I discover that I am the only one of the pair of us who is actually trying to accomplish anything aside from running, full on, high speed, headlong running.
I believe he is part shark. He never stops moving. He would even sleep in a constant state of motion if simple gravity would allow it.
But alas, blessed Inertia strikes when he least expects it, and I bid her a fond hello every time she appears. She, Inertia, is my friend.
Sadly, though, Sleepy and Irritable and Plain Old Exhausted are always behind Inertia to take me to my own slumber just when the little man is finally down and out. It just doesn't seem fair.