Oh Crap, the Three's

As Ella's third birthday approached, I actually started to feel myself breathe easier.  We're still not potty trained (not even close) but we seemed to weather the two's with only minor battle wounds to show for it.   On the one hand, a part of me was nostalgic because really, there's just no way to justify a three year old as a toddler anymore (she really hasn't been for awhile).  Now, she's right smack in the middle of her preschool years, precocious as ever, and losing more of her baby chub every day.  Ack!  How did this happen?  WHEN did this happen??  (I think I want another baby).



On the other hand, I started congratulating myself on making it through her two's.  Jake and I high-fived each other with looks of satisfaction.  "We did it!  Yaaaaaay!"


And then I started getting comments on facebook about her impending birthday:


"Good luck with that!"
"Ugh, the THREE'S."
"My children were way worse at 3 then they were at 2." 
"Just when we thought the worst was over, he turned 3." 


 Someone even skipped a year ahead to give me advanced warning of the "F*** You Fours."


I died a little inside with every comment.


It's not that I thought Jake and I could dust our hands off and be officially DONE with the hardest part of child-rearing (um, I'm terrified of her teenage years), but I was hoping for at least a little reprieve.  Besides, all I had ever been warned about were the "Terrible Two's."  What is this with the three's now?   Lord knows you don't really get anything for making it out of the two's alive- no medal, no long weekend getaway sans kids, not even a shout-out.   In the very least, we had hoped to graduate with at least a partially potty-trained kid who "slept in" past seven.  No such luck.  


I scoffed and thought, "well, maybe that happens to OTHER kids.  Her two's were pretty tumultuous though, so I'm gonna say we've been through the worst..."


And here we are.  Three years and two weeks old, and as much as I wanted to say otherwise, it's like someone flipped a switch permanently to sassy mode.  Heaven help me.  There seems to be a new level of resistance to the things I ask her to do, marked simply by the fact that she's that much more articulate and conniving.  As if that isn't enough, she's started waking up multiple times a night for reasons like, "my curtain rod is scary," or "there's a penguin in my closet" or my most recent personal favorite, "I'm afraid I'm going to grow a peanut like Mi-yo."


Really, kid?


And so I find myself battling newborn-like sleep deprivation, only this time, having to maintain a conversation with my NOT newborn--at 2:20 in the morning-- about why it's just physically not possible for her to grow a penis.  (That's my girl.  If ever there was a good reason to lose sleep, she'll come up with it).  I stumble back into the room and wonder how it is that my one year old is sleeping better than my three year old.

 Jake: "What was it this time?"  
Me: "Apparently, she's scared of penises."  
Jake: "GOOD."


If I don't laugh, I'll cry.  But sometimes even laughing just takes too much darn energy.  In the meantime, I tell myself not to be scared about the three's (not much I can do about it now anyway). That maybe, just like everything else, it's a day by day thing.  Some days will need to be conquered with extra strong coffee, or chocolate, or wine, or maybe screaming into a pillow (me, not her).  And other days will find me in stitches over her spunky attitude, or simply marveling at the fun little girl she's becoming.  


I think there will be more of the latter.