Death by Threenager

          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.