Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Being Three Years Old is A {Insert Explicit Here}

Of course by explicit I'm referring to something like:
A pain in the buttocks.
Bunch of baloney.
Come on people, I'm trying to keep it G rated here. There are two types of people that will read this. To those who have children, you'll find this post of no real comfort, don't expect any solace or magic trick to end the agony, oh the agony! brought by that little bad word I call THREE YEAR OLD'S . Yeah I went there. OR you have no children and this post might forever prevent you from the desire to procreate and bring little, fun sized psychotic humans into the world. Consider this your formal warning.

Phew, not that we got that out of way. Oh. my. goodness. What in the world is happening to my child and why does he hate everything and anything I do? I'm trying to think of the best way to explain it, and the only thing I can come up with is {drum roll please!} an analogy. Yeah I know. Total nerd, but it feels something like this;

  • Finger is to Hand and Jude is to Foot, my foot stepping on a Lego, a specially sharp one in the middle of the night.
  • Purple is to Grapes as Jude is to Red, the red wine I drink lots of in the aftermath of this travesty.
  • Page is to Book as Jude is to Post, this post to be precise, where I vent my frustrations and over dramatic perspective on the whole thing.

By the way, I totally hope you read the first half of these with a very kind charming, inviting tone then for the "Jude is to " transition you changed it to an evil Dr. Jekyll voice muahahahaha. See what I mean by over dramatic?
 Anyway, I was saying. My three year old is crazy. Before you think to yourself, of course he's crazy he's three! Let me just say I did not know three year old's to be THIS CRAY CRAY.

I apologize for that. I really do.

I mean, I've had three year old's before, two of them! Gees, I was not this tormented.
Why did I think that something magical would happen this last September when he turned three? Did I secretly think I'd find him in the morning of his birthday sitting up in his room, drinking a cup of tea? And he'd greet me "Well, hello there Mother. How do you do. Lovely morning, what do we have planned for this extraordinary day?"( Insert British accent) And I'd throw a kiss-the-terrible-twos-goodbye party? This catastrophe my friends deserves a name. If we call the two's by Terrible then Three's need a warning label as well. We shall call them the Abominable Three's..The Atrocious Three's. ..The Despicable Three's...

Back to Jude now,


This kid is going through something and I genuinely feel bad. He screams so much, boy does he scream. Nothing ever seems to make him happy lately. He fights you when you give him food then fights you some more when you take it away from him. He will wake up, look at me and yell NO!!! No what? I didn't do or say anything kiddo! Who does that?

 And don't get me started on those tantrums. Goodness grace. That boy has perfected that art of screaming at the top of his lungs for hours at end without shedding a single tear. Pretty impressive huh? It's okay though I cry enough for the both of us anyway. But you know what makes this whole thing worse? He's got me wrapped around on his little finger. I'm pretty sure while I sleep in the night he stays up practicing that menacing smile that always cuts trough me like a ninja. And those kisses. AY AY AY (f.y.i. you have to read ay ay ay in Spanish or it has no effect whatsoever and will only confuse you, and the content of this post. thank you) Those kisses accompanied by that little voice saying "mommy mommy mommy, I wuv you". Stick a fork in me. I'm done.

He's got me I tell you and although I did not expect the extreme, bipolar like mood changes of my three year, I am pleasantly surprised every day when I come home from work. The Avengers are still not interesting enough to prevent him from running to me when he sees me (Yeah, I'm talking to you Matthew. You COULD pause the movie and act like you miss me) And no drawing is ever too much of a masterpiece to keep him from looking out of the window as I park in the driveway (Yup Benjamin. This low blow is for you. You could PRETEND you noticed I haven't been home all day.)

Now, no horror story is ever complete without a glimmer of hope, the thought that maybe, just maybe human kind will be saved.
 In all this madness, the atrocities associated with the third year of my son's life are nothing compared to the happiness he brings me. All the tantrums he throws in public that make me want to dig myself a hole on the ground and hide in it forever, or the constant yelling that makes my brain cells vibrate and ears bleed are nothing I tell you, nothing in comparison to the sheer joy he brings us.
So if this means bracing myself for the next several months, then I guess I'll have to suck it up baby. I am confident we'll make it, will I age ten years while doing it? Maybe. Will I go lightly insane in the process? Probably. Will I drink a bit more red wine during the ordeal? You bet your Nalgas I will.

(Please don't Google nalgas.
 It's Spanish for your behind, as in your donkey area.
 See, this post is pain driven AND instructional)

Unless GASP. It does end FOR SURE when he turns four, RIGHT? There's no such thing as The Shocking Fours or The Appalling Fours?! Right?
I just gave myself the goosebumps.

Meanwhile you ponder on that, check out this mugshot of Jude. Remember he's innocent until proven guilty
Those cheeks. Goodness.

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