I never wanted to be ‘that’ parent. The one who yells. The one who loses her temper. The one who hisses “Shut up! Shut up!” in the middle of the night. The one who gets so frustrated she needs to scream into a pillow to release some of the tension.
But it’s happening. It’s happened. The threenager is winning.
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| The threenager is displeased with something |
She is manipulative. She is stubborn.
She is doing my head in…
I know she doesn’t really understand what she’s doing. I know she’s testing boundaries, and learning where the line is. And yes, I know she’s just being three. But for FFS she is hard work!
On a bad day, she yells and screams, she throws things, she kicks doors. She terrorises her little brother, pushes him, takes his toys, teases him until he cries. Every request is met with a rude “No!”, with some stroppy foot stamping to ram the point home. She is out of control, a feral child in a pink princess dress.
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| If looks could kill... |
God, how I love her. Never doubt that. I love her with every fibre of my being, with a ferocity that would shame a lioness. I love her enthusiasm and her curiosity, her cheekiness and her compassion. I would protect her with my life, and defend her to the ends of the Earth. But I have no leverage. I have no power. I have nothing she wants, and she’s not attached to anything enough to make it worth confiscating.
I can threaten, cajole, bribe and plead, all to no effect. I ignore her behaviour and walk away, and she just continues doing whatever the fuck she wants, no skin off her nose.
If she knew what flipping the bird was, she’d be doing it to my face.
The Easter bunny might not visit, you say? Pffft… whatever… I’m just going to keep right on doing what I’m doing. I know you’re bluffing. You can’t control me, lady. We both know it. The contents of that toy basket is going to remain strewn across the lounge room floor and there’s nothing you can do about it. Oh, except pick it all up yourself.
And she’s right.
She is Miss Independent, Miss My-Way-or-the-Highway, my Little Miss 3. She is a maven of mayhem and madness, a power-tripping preschooler leaving us all in her dust. I am impressed. I am in awe. I will soon be in therapy if this continues…
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| Eat my dust |
And yet…
Some days she is my heart, my right hand girl, my little helper. She is hilarious, she is entertaining. She sings me songs and draws me pictures. She plays with her brother, nurses her dollies, waters the vegie patch, unpacks the dishwasher. She is helpful. She is nurturing. She is lovely to be around. She asks for cuddles and she snuggles into me. She is my baby again. I melt.
If I only I could know which Little Miss she was going to be on any given day, perhaps I could mentally prepare myself better. But for now I’ll stay on my toes, and keep jumping through all of the hoops.
Oh, to be a threenager; all of the power, and none of the responsibility. And the opportunity to try out a new personality every time you wake up ;)
I know it’s not just my Little Miss – what’s your threenager been up to?
