Our oldest just turned three, but she started acting like one weeks ago. A switch flipped. Suddenly, her favorite word was “No!” (Not just “no,” but “NO!”) She found her daddy and I slow dancing and said “Ew,” with her cocky-sixteen-year-old tone. When told to do something, she lies on the couch, one foot propped on the headrest, waving it around while we
plead for cooperation warn her that there will be consequences for disobedience.
In other words, we have a threenager.
It’s a battlefield–complete with rage-induced war cries, flying spaghetti shrapnel, pizza-sauce bloodstains, cookie-dough cannons, psychological warfare, sleep deprivation, a salivatory appreciation for rarely-enjoyed delicacies, and a doctorate-level strategy requisite to make a chess champion blush.
And I will miss every moment of this–her spunky attitude, contagious giggles, and thirst for independence–when she’s grown up and gone.