Goddamn, I love me some three-year-old. Like, when the planets align and we get him up to the shower/bath before he melts down from exhaustion and then he is crazy cooperative and just the sweetest softest little funniest little cleverest little bean that ever there was — yes. That’s when I love me some three-year-old.
Like, tonight. When he earnestly told me that he wants to make chocolate Valentine cookies “with white polka dots” because that’s the kind that the dragon made for his friends. And then he wrapped his little jammied arms around my neck and pulled m* into a big family hug with us before “towing” her down to his room for songs. And like earlier, when he told Siri to “set the timer for 5 minutes” so we could play trains and then when the timer went off, he sighed, “aww, man. We were having so much fun!” but then he chose a toy and carried it upstairs without an argument.
Or like this morning, when I was teaching him how to put on his socks and he just kept at it, occasionally grunting in frustration, but taking suggestions and then: “Look, Mama! I did it! I put my baby toes in first and then my bigs!”
Mm. Yeah. Ask me tomorrow and my answer might change, but tonight, I love me some three.