Three

This is the story of a day in the life.

Three was hard. I say was as if I am walking out of the woods, but it’s funny how life doesn’t let you get away with much once you think you’ve won. Just as I was preparing to write a mash up of stories from my threenager trials and tribulations and all that I had survived through like a warrior woman with a gold star, I had a rough morning.

Honestly, most mornings with a three-year-old are rough. They are smart. And have emotions as big as the sea. And they don’t yet know how to steer the ship. They blame you. Who else do they have to blame? Surely not themselves.

Every morning starts out sweet. Like clockwork, my son wakes up at seven and thump goes a loud bang. His little feet hitting the floor after he jumps out of his bed like an animal ninja. The sound is a confirmation to my brain that the day is beginning. I used to wake up early, before the sun, but lately I have been choosing sleep over morning me time in exchange for later evenings spent unloading my brain in books and reality television. Balance in motion.

Following the thump is his doorknob opening in the room next to ours, and quick feet running towards me. My son’s hair is wild and untamed as if he went on many adventures during dreamtime. He sucks his thumb which is something we are working to phase out but I still find it adorable. I pretend I have been up long before him and turn on my energy signals. I sit up tall and invite him in with a wave. He stops to give our dog, Biggie Smalls a pet first. “I’m going to say hi to Biggie” he tells me as if it’s important to mention every time.

He climbs up into bed with us. Without words, he hops in the middle, closest to me and tucks his tiny legs under the covers. “Your bed is so comfy, mommy”. We stare into each other’s eyes and he plays with my hair. This is when time stands still. There is no world outside of this moment that we share together. It’s just us. I breathe it in and study every nook of his face. May I always remember how sweet he is.

We begin to speak to each other in facial expressions and somehow it always makes sense. Sooner or later one of us has a great idea: “I know! Lets. Get. Some. Breakfast.”

The day begins. Time continues playing. The sun is up. We notice the bunnies outside and sometimes squirrels and always, always the lizards. My son pines with all his might, “can we stay at our house today? I don’t wannnnnnnt to go to preschool.” I mean, I can’t blame him. My husband and I are pretty fun so who wouldn’t want to spend the whole day with us? We explain that we have to go to work so we can pay for things like our house and the food he is eating. “Ok…” sometimes this is followed by acceptance and a dance party. Other times it begins a tantrum that has me questioning why I ever chose a life with children.

This morning, breakfast went well. We always eat together because we are food people and we love breakfast. Today’s menu: cereal with strawberries and milk. “What is this?” my son shows me an almond on his spoon.

“It’s an almond”. Immediate silence. He thinks about this for a good while deciding if he likes it or not. He stares at his spoon and then back at me. Finally, a decision. “Ugh! I don’t like almonds!”… I take a breath and tell him, “really? almonds are my favorite. They are super sweet.” He thinks some more. Then, like it’s nothing he takes another bite of cereal scooping up extra almonds.

“I like almonds, too!” Toddlers are fucking nuts.

We finish our cereal and get ready to go. We brush teeth. We get dressed. We go to the barbershop which is where I do my child’s hair on my bed as we watch one eight minute episode of Bluey. It is the only way I have found success in doing this boy’s hair without interruption or complaining. As a bonus today at the barbershop, we had a tattoo artist come by: (Me). Tattoos are very popular in our house right now and this morning’s art piece of choice was a Harry Potter lightning bolt. A very cool choice I must say. He hands me his left arm and says, “on my right arm, please!” We go with it.

Hair done. Tattoo in place. Happy kid. And we’re off.

On the way to preschool we are jamming to Earth, Wind, and Fire and we are both feelin’ it. Grooving. I intentionally plan our arrival time to be in the window where all the kids are playing outdoors. If the kids are inside? Game over. I have learned this the hard way enough times to know we must avoid it at all costs. We must get there during playground time. Or else. After, “Shining Star” commences, my little dude puts in a song request. “Can you play raindrops falling on my head?” Not exactly my banger of choice but he loves it so I agree. Now… I don’t know what kind of power this child has in the world yet, but let me tell you that mere seconds after the song started playing, it began to rain.

GOD HELP ME. It wasn’t supposed to rain today. I checked the weather app and there were no signs. I begin to pray. I also begin to wonder about his powers. An idea! “I know. Let’s see if we can get the sunshine to come out with a different song?” I pitch him. He likes this plan. I begin playing, “My Girl” by the Temptations and we both sing along. Maybe we could pull this off in the next three to four minutes. I don’t know how the world works.

“I’ve got suuuuunshiiiiiine… on a cloudy day.”

We arrive at our destination and nothing had changed. “It’s not working, MOM. It’s STILL sprinkling, MOM! Your idea DIDN’T WORK!”. Toddlers are scary.

I know already that my smart child is aware that the kids don’t play outside if it’s sprinkling. He brings it up immediately after I park and firmly expresses that he will not be going to preschool today. I gotta think fast.

An idea! I tell him he’s right. Our teachers will keep the kids inside if it’s raining to protect them so everyone stays warm and dry. It’s important so no one gets sick. “But wait… do you still have your lightning bolt?” he checks his arm and lights up. “I do!” Phew. I grab his jacket and put it on him and we are ready to enter the building. Before we do, he asks me to pull up the sleeve where his tattoo is so he can show all of his friends his magic. I agree.

As I pull the sleeve on one arm up, the tattoo comes off slightly. I don’t even notice it, it’s so small. I look down and my son’s face is bright red with anger.

“YOU. BROKE. MY. MAGIC!!!!!!!!”

Uhhh. What the fuck is happening. I realize there’s a sliver missing from the lightning bolt and this boy has reached a point of no return. Life ended in this moment. I’m at a loss. And I have to get to work soon. Jesus Christmas.

I make up everything I can. I explain that all superheroes have a scar on their body as part of their initiation to getting their true powers and that was his. Now it’s a real magic lightning bolt and is even more powerful than before. He doesn’t buy it. I insist. He considers it some more like deciding if he hates almonds or loves them and somehow, eventually, agrees to go inside.

We get to the classroom and sure enough, rain sprinkling down, all the kids are gathered indoors. Playing. My little superhero is reminded that his tattoo is missing a piece and he refuses to budge past the entryway.

“I will NOT go to preschool!” he stomps his feet.

This isn’t my first rodeo with firm opposition. And today I was not in the mood to barter. I give him a shot to walk inside on his own soon before I pick him up and remind him that mommy is strong and preschool is where he will be going today. I carry him inside as he is screaming amongst all the happy children and teachers, “Noooooo! Mommy noooooo!” I hand him off to one of the teacher-goddesses there to help me. God bless these human angels.

He bites my shoulder. It’s been a while since I received one of these and it caught me off guard. A good fucking chomp that required me to physically remove his teeth from me with my hands.

Big emotions. Little body. I don’t take it personally.

I exit the building and take a deep breath. Regulating emotions isn’t just for the little bodies. It’s important for me to do, too. In fact it’s absolutely necessary. I remind myself that he is still just three years old. He will be four in August. Maybe four will be easier? I tell myself.

As I drive off playing the rest of, “My Girl”… the rain stops falling. I laugh to myself. Then I remember the nooks of his little face from earlier this morning and all I can feel is love.