Three is the Longest Year

December has come and gone in a rush of cold air, some torrential downpours, and freakishly unpredictable tantrums.  They are like tornadoes.  They come out of no where, lift up your life, and tumble it into the air, never giving a hint as to where it will land again.  For all we know, it won't.

Three is the suckiest of all the years we have encountered so far.  As far as cuteness levels go, they plummet at this stage, not because the kid ain't cute...he's adorable LOOKING.  It's the horrible temperament.  The terrible, awful, painfully unlikeable personality that goes along with three is like someone pulled another kid out of yours and left you with two.  One has the ability to make your heart explode with love.  The other?  Netflix The Omen.

Along with three comes his one and a half year old counterpart, who still has his new baby smell.  He iss also still adorable, still cute as a button, and still devoid of the stench of being awful three.  Not that I expect this to last, mind you, as the three-year-old is trying his best to convert the one and a half year old into his minion.  It's slowly starting to work, too.  No matter how much I try, there's always something he can get by us.  Three is very sneaky, you see.  Three knows he will eventually need someone to drive the getaway car when he robs the local bank.  It's been planned since the day we brought his brother home from the hospital.

Potty training has gone...no where.  Basically, we've decided that he's just messing with us at this point.  He knows when he has to go.  He CHOOSES not to go where we want him to.  He says he likes diapers.  I like them to, until I get the bill at the end of every friggin' month for nearly $100.  My husband is ready to throw him in underwear, tell him there are no more diapers anywhere, and to play a kind of poopy "chicken" with him until he gives up and goes in the toilet.  I, on the other hand, am not thrilled with the prospect of throwing feces stained clothing into the wash every three hours or whatever ridiculous amount this stupid standoff will take.

The Battle of Three will go down in the annals of history as the grossest, smelliest, most exhausting year of our lives.

The Terrible Threes

You can forget the "Terrible Twos."  These people warning you about the second year are just messing with you.  It's really three you have to run screaming from.

It could be that people are being very specific and literal about the age at which the cute, adorable little children become CHILDREN OF THE CORN.  Because, really, it all begins around the late twos.  Maybe 30 months or so.  Yes, I just described my child in months even though he is in preschool.  I'm THAT mom now.

And here's why.  You really need to be on the dot about the months, and I understand why now.  It's because every month in a toddler's life is like a dog year.  They mature at an exponential rate in all areas of growth...brain development, behavior, awareness, speech...it's all crazy fast forwarding at an impossibly quick rate.  So before I had kids, I was quick to make fun of the parents who said, "Oh, she's 27 months old."  I would think, "WOW.  What a douche.  HA HA."

But now, AFTER kids?  It's a badge of honor to say how many months you've had to tolerate the crazy of toddlerhood.  When they were infants, the months were necessary until they hit one year.  And then after that they weren't two, but they were so close to two, but calling them two years old seemed unimaginable since they were still your little baby.  Totally understandable.

But after two?  People start looking at you funny when you say, "Oh, he's 26 months old."  They give you the stink face as if to say, "Yeah, you mean TWO, you pretentious douche."  NO.  I MEAN HE'S 26 MONTHS OLD.

But what I'm really saying is, hey, I've been dealing with this nutjob toddler for 26 months.  Sure, 12 to 18 was a breeze and he was cute enough.  But now?!  He's an angelic doll one day, offering me hugs and kisses, giving me unconditional smiles, eating everything on his plate and then BLAM...it's all freak outs in public and ninety minutes of negotiating at night just to get this kid to close his freakin' eyes.  Oh it was so great having a nice, pleasant 24 month old, but now it's One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest up in here.  I'm barely keeping it together, people!  Don't even talk to me about potty training!!  EVERY DAY IS A FIGHT TO SURVIVE.  Therefore, I count every month as a month of surviving this sh#t.

Imagine Alcoholics Anonymous, with the fabulous chips that indicate how many days you've been sober.  Not to compare the two or underscore how impossibly difficult it is to overcome alcoholism...but have you ever had poop on your face after a diaper change or caught vomit IN YOUR HAND?!  Talk to me after you've dragged a screaming toddler down six blocks because you dared to touch him on the arm or try to wipe his face.  People stare at me like I'm Joan Crawford when I'm trying desperately to contain the crazy in public.  So, yeah,  I should get a friggin' chip too.  Now add a gift card for a mani/pedi because I really don't think these things called "nails" need to look like Fritos corn chips.


But I always try to remind myself during those moments of fight or flight...this, too, shall pass.  I hear year four is lovely.  Yes, year four sounds nice.  Until then, you can find me in my happy place...I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, unicorns pooping rainbows and all that good stuff...