Posted on | September 7, 2012 | 11 Comments
Yesterday, we had a play date with a boy in J’s class and his parents. They came over for dinner and the boys played for a while until their son apparently went to play with a toy that J didn’t want him to play with. A small argument ensued and I did what all parents of only children do… I instructed J to share nicely.
You’d have thought I’d asked him to hand over a kidney.
He stood up, stomped his feet and semi-yelled “No! I don’t WANT to give him that toy. I’m MAD!”
And then he took off down the hall, threw open the door to his room and slammed it behind him.
No one told me that raising a three year old was like living with a 13 year old girl. When I got back there to him, he was sprawled out, face down on his bed, red-faced and furious. And all I could think was that somehow, my sweet, kind, adorable boy had been possessed by the mind and soul of Joey Potter.
The drama is insane. The mood swings are ridiculous. The angst is Dawson’s Creek worthy.
My son can go from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to Grey’s Anatomy in 5.2 flat. He is so mercurial that I have to keep a case of beer on hand just to self-medicate when he whirls himself into bed. I had NO idea that three was like this. I had no clue that his hormones would rival that of the sixth grader down the stret. I had no inkling that I would need bars of chocolate to coax him down off the ledge of crazy that he seems perched to jump from.
It’s out of control.
On any given day, I don’t know if I’m going to deal with my toddler, or his alter-ego, Angela Chase. I don’t know if I’m going to come home and find purple hair dye all over the tub and a nose piercing or just the normal crash cars against the wall and sing songs about poop. It’s like I don’t know my own child.
I guess it’s the coming to awareness that three year olds find? The ability to name their emotions, the prowess to express their feelings and concerns? Hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that if I hear one more door slam in my house before J reaches 13, I’m taking it off the hinges.
Because there’s plenty of time for drama when he hits middle school… momma doesn’t need it right now.