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...

Adult vs. Toddler

Just to let the Internet world know, my baby will be one year old very soon.  ONE.  That's no longer negative one.  That's a whole year gone by in a flash like Wally West just ran around the Earth in seconds flat in his superhero costume.  Color me blown away.

Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk.  He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position.  Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP.  It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.

Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor.  This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby.  He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition.  As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.

The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one.  He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in.  Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!!  It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling.  After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return.  The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.

The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments.  This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it.  When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!"  It's truly a joy to behold.

However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments.  And they are a bear to deal with.  For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two.  He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun.  No pancakes for dinner?  SCREEEEE!!!  You CUT my burrito?!  WAAAILLL!!!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!!  AHHHHH!!!

And so on, and so on.  The battle rages on.  It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.