In
the grand scheme of early parenting, I’ve survived a lot. I made it through
four REALLY rough pregnancies, four complicated emergency csections, and some
liver and kidney failures thanks to my little cuties. I handled three
thankfully brief NICU stays and the stress of preemies. Next, I endured colic.
Not the witching-hour crying most babies get, but the full on 18 hours a day of
inconsolable screaming that lasts five months (which, karmically speaking, is
never supposed to happen with your fourth child. I mean come ON!). I even
managed (so far) to endure 8+ years of sleep deprivation. I’ve dealt with
severe reflux, developmental delays, teething, three rounds of potty training
and two tearful (by me, not the kids) first days of kindergarten.
But this?
I. Just. Can’t.
I should’ve known the threes
wouldn’t be easy with a child who had her own hashtag at 13 months to label her
mischievous stunts. And yet here I am, stunned at how inexplicably rotten an
adorable twenty-seven pound creature can be. In my defense, she’s just so cute
that it’s hard to envision the full breadth of her naughtiness. I mean, this is
the kid who peacefully snuggled against me in a sling the first 8 months of her
life. What happened to that sweet baby?
It’s not just the tantrums, or the
stubbornness, or the scores of never-ending messes, or even the complete lack
of logic or reasoning. I can accept that she may never willingly wear clothes
and that I’ll always get to be THAT parent, wrestling my kid into clothes next
to the car and then forcefully fastening her into her carseat before she can
strip again. I’m okay with the fact that if I don’t feed her exactly what she
wants in the exact red-colored bowl she wants—even if she tells me a different
color the first 8 times—she may not eat a single bite of food for three days. I
can even deal with the sassiness and the eye rolling that I suspect isn’t even
developmentally feasible for most young threes.
What I can’t handle is that look—the way
she glances at me when it’s like she really sees my soul. She knows exactly what
I need her to do at that given moment and then she smiles, as sweetly as can
be. Then she says that one short word: “No.” There’s a special glimmer in her
eyes as she continues smiling and I can just hear her internal monologue
taunting me “whatcha gonna do now, Mommypants?”
That’s just it. I don’t know. I haven’t
the slightest clue how to tame her or what to do. And she freaking knows it.
I know this is just a phase. I know
someday she’ll wear socks without screaming like I’ve amputated her foot. I
know someday I’ll drop her off at preschool and not feel like an enormous
weight has been lifted. I know it will all get easier.
You might be tempted to tell me that
someday I’ll miss the toddler years, but let me just say I don’t need to hear that s**t now.
Right now, what I need is an obscenely big glass
of wine and some warmer weather so my threenager can play outside without the
pants she refuses to wear.
