Oh my lady. If almost-three is any indication of what three is going to be like (and I have a sinking feeling that it is) we are in for a wild ride.

It goes something like this:
“I want cocoa!” (This is every morning, as soon as his pretty blue eyes open. “Cocoa” is actually 2/3 white milk and 1/3 chocolate milk, nuked for 45 seconds and shaken in a sippy cup. Ideally, it is enjoyed on the couch, while watching ‘a show’, but it will really be acceptable at any time of the day.)

“Let me help!” (There’s some back and forth about how we ask for things politely and then a very well-practiced routine of him pretending to help pour the multiple milks, him putting the valve in the sippy, him opening the microwave, him pretending to help push the buttons, him insisting that I count backwards from 45 until the microwave beeps, him opening the door, and him screwing the lid of the sippy on. Are you still wondering why we have to wake up a minimum of a full hour before we need to leave to be anywhere?)

Then we watch the show (usually Dora and, while we’re talking about Dora, why is everything Dora-related manufactured as a “girl” thing? Pink Dora nightgown, pink Dora underwear, pink Dora makeup set — makeup set? It’s annoying. I briefly contemplated buying Dora underwear for The Who today — see what I did there? Briefly? Underwear? Anyway. — but decided against it. They had Diego underwear for boys, but The Who isn’t into Diego. Ugh. Annoying.) So, yeah. Then we watch the show and that is usually fine. At some point during the watching, I say, “After the show, we have to get dressed for school.” And he brightly replies, “Ok, Mama!” Masquerading as the cooperative child he used to be.

Show ends. Me: “Time to get dressed!” Him: T. A. N. T. R. U. M. And this is when he pulls out all the tricks, including but not limited to: “I want another Dora! More cocoa! I’m hungry! I don’t wanna get dressed! One minute! Set the timer!” I do usually manage to get some clothes on him, but I can never manage to get him to go potty. “I don’t have to pee!” While doing the pee-dance. WhatEVER.

I will give him this: once the clothes are on and the cocoa is consumed, as long as I follow the carefully practiced script, it goes pretty smoothly. I need to remember to let him unlock and open the door. And I need to let him take his sweet time making his way to the car. And I need to let him pick up one, two, sometimes three rocks from the driveway and bring them in the car with him. (I also need to let him bring a toy from home to school; usually it’s just one, so that’s easy.) We also need to listen to “kid music” on the way to school and we have to stay in the car until he says it’s time to go in (which is usually only until the current song is over.) I have to let him climb out of the carseat himself and run up to the front door of school and ring the bell and “sign his name” on the sign-in sheet. But then we’re good. And that’s just the morning.

That’s just the morning. One hour. Good thing (for you) it’s a school day because I’ll stop with the excruciating detail now. But rest assured that it picks right up where I left off at school pick-up, right through ’til bedtime. And if it’s not a school day? You guessed it. All day long.

And this, friends, is why I am dreading three.

One thought on “Almost-three.

  1. I used to pitch serious tantrums as a 3 year old. My pediatrician told my parents to get up and leave the room. I’d follow them, throw myself on the ground slide my hand beneath my forehead and “bang” my head off the floor. Nice.

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