Posted on | August 1, 2013 | 19 Comments
No one really warned me about three.
I mean, I’d heard about the “terrible twos” and I’d had people jokingly tell me that the three’s were worse but no one really told me what that MEANT. See, at two, your kid is still sort of smallish. They are easily picked up and deposited in places and if you’re lucky, they still have a crib they haven’t learned to crawl out of. At two, they don’t quite make complete sentences all the time and when they do, the words are usually a little wrong like “mine” instead of “me” or “she” instead of “he.” So when they rebel against you, it’s sort of like watching a kitten attack a great dane… it’s annoying, but ultimately it doesn’t really do much damage.
But at three.
Oh my GOD at three.
Well, now we’re really a lot closer to four and I see no end in sight for the drama that is my child. Everything is epic… from brushing his teeth to eating dinner at the table. And don’t get me started on shower time.
Yesterday, my child told me he hated me four times. FOUR TIMES. When he gets mad, he storms off to his room, screams over his shoulder “I AM NEVER PLAYING WITH YOU AGAIN” and slams his door. Even his compliments come out tinged with meanness… the other night, he told me if I didn’t turn around so he could see my “beautiful face” he was going to punch me. There’s not enough booze on the planet to deal with crap like that, I promise you.
It’s like living with a teenager; a small, tyrannical dictator, hyped up on no sleep and self-created sugar… like Kim Yong Il on crack. His voice goes up an octave, his face turns red, and he screams with all the force of an angry T-Rex when he decides that I’m not giving him whatever it is he wants at the particular time he wants it.
Yesterday it was fruit snacks for breakfast. The “no” he got drove him into an all out frenzy of hatred towards me where he said he hated me, would never play with me again, and would definitely never even look at me again because I’m not fair and mean and hell, probably ugly and fat, too. To say that parenting through this stage is exhausting would be like saying swimming the English Channel is mildly difficult. I feel like I’ve got a whirling dervish coming at me at all times and I honestly don’t know if I should laugh, cry, punish, or just back away slowly.
Everyone says four is better.
Four comes in 21 days. Please pray I can make it that long.