It is the best of times. It is the worst of times.
Parenting a three year-old, that is.
There are days I want to stop the clock. Breathe her in. Bottle her up and keep her exactly this way a little while longer.
Because she still wants me more than just about anything. She’s inquisitive and funny and says words like “waterlemon.” Her brain is exploding with all the new things she is learning, and her personality is taking form. She kisses me full on the lips and presses her cheek to mine, and I wonder how it gets any better than this. Terrible threes? Pshhhh. We’re going to cruise right past all of that mess.
And then five minutes later I ponder whether I could legitimately trade her in. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, SOMEONE TAKE HER AND LEAVE ME A GOLDEN RETRIEVER PUPPY. #pleaseandthankyou
I mean, is it written in their DNA that they must save their loudest and most ridiculous tantrums for the public places? Must they actually boycott all green food? Do they just instinctively know how best to break us?
We are fully engaged in a battle of wills, and she is schooling me. In fact, sometimes I’m quite certain I will not survive this age. Because the weight of what we’re doing here feels heavy. We have been charged with equipping our little souls to face the world. Which means discipline. Which means defiance. Which means more discipline. Which means wine-o-clock and chocolate chips straight from the bag.
But we don’t give in on the hard days. We can’t. We press on because life-shaping is important and beautiful and grueling work and because we see flashes of what is to come. When it’s good, it’s really good. And when it’s bad? We focus on the good and pray for bedtime.
Three seems to be a paradox because it is simultaneously the most wonderful thing we have experienced as mothers and also the hardest.
And it just keeps getting better, they tell us.
And harder.
But how can that be? HOW?
Remember how impossible and awesome kindergarten felt as a kid? And yet fourth grade was better. And also harder. Same for seventh grade. Same for senior year. And so on and so forth until you find yourself a new mom in a frenzy of nighttime feedings, soaking up a few sweet moments with your little person in your arms and wondering what the future holds. How could it possibly get better, you ask? And how in the world could it be any harder?
Honestly? I have no earthly idea.
Ask me in three more years.
Maybe I’ll have it figured out by then.
