Three the Hard Way

Last year I wrote a blog condemning the term "terrible twos" and suggested that whoever coined it get a swift kick in the face . Now, I'm not one to usually retract or regret what I say, which normally gets me into a lot of trouble, but in this case, I would like to formally retract that entire post and say that the "terrible twos" are CAKE compared to the "tortuous threes" as I have taken to calling them.

Firstly, let me begin my asking, where is my child? What once used to be this giggly, funny, toddl-y, cute little munchkin has been replaced with a whining, cranky, stubborn, screaming, yelling, constantly breaking something, throwing things, hitting the dog, mini version of hell that I do not recognize. It's like he is bipolar (no offense to those who genuinely suffer from this disorder), breathing hot and cold within seconds of each other. One second he's smothering me with hugs and kisses telling me he loves me, I blink or sneeze, and he is now screaming at the top of his lungs that he will not clean up his toys and that he is "frustaratereder" with me. He's also taken a shine to "talking back" which honestly, I didn't think I was going to encounter until the word "teen" followed his age, but apparently 3 is the new 13 and I was dead wrong. Here is a typical conversation in our home:

Me: Dante what would you like for breakfast?
Dante: Eggies with cheese please mommy, I love you.
Me: I love you too D. Please pick up your cars and put them in the garage.

(insert sound of the Earth's crust cracking as the Sun flickers for a moment)

Dante: NO! I WILL NOT! I WILL NOT! I WILL NOT!
Me: Fine, if you don't clean up your mess, you will not get breakfast.
Dante: YES I WILL!
Me: No you won't.
Dante: YES I WILL!
Me: Nope, not quite there champ.
Dante: I AM NOT A CHAMP! I WILL NOT PUT CARS IN GARAGE! NO! NO! NO! (giant scream and/or growling frustrated sound followed by the sound of Lightning McQueen or Chick Hicks being thrown against something that makes a loud "it's broken now" sound)

At this moment, a clump of my hair usually falls gracefully to the floor. One of the side effects of the thyroid medication I take is thinning hair, but I don't think that is what is making me an early candidate for Chick Rogaine. I am pretty sure it is my daily intake of "3 year old Kim Jong Il" that is causing my once-thick hair to look like I was attacked by a paper shredder.

So this goes on for another 20 minutes and I'm sure it is partially my fault since I need to have the last word, even if it means arguing with someone 32 years younger than me about putting their Hot Wheels into an old toolbox of daddy's which now serves as a "garage". Blame that on my own mother who never let me have the last word on anything and now, since I am a mother, believe the "no last word for you, my friend" torch has been passed on.

Finally though, my dad's technique of "break them by ignoring them" kicks in and I just phase out my demonic little boy until I hear the familiar clunk of the Hot Wheels being thrown into the garage in the playroom. I then, stick my head in the room, tell him thanks for being "a listener" and then get smothered in hugs and kisses and "I love yous" until he is human again.

It's enough to make me want to take up meth.

Another interesting milestone that comes with the "tortuous threes" is the Let's Ask People Inappropriate Questions and/or Point Out Inappropriate Things Loudly phase. When a 2 year old babblingly points to a fat woman and says "baby", it's cute and people giggle and whispers of "aw, how adorable" fill the air. When a 3 year old points to a fat woman, in a crowded checkout line at Target, and says "Mommy look, that fat lady has a baby in her belly", it's not that cute. In fact, it's so not cute that you're genuinely worried that said fat lady is going to come sit on you, your kid, and the broccoli you bought on sale because it is so much cheaper that the ones at Publix.

When your 2 year old clings to you and puts his hand on your boob and giggles, it's cute because he is remembering that milk comes from there and that those were what fed him for the early part of his life. When your 3 year old is throwing a tantrum at the quiet library and decides to pull on your shirt so everyone, from Faulkner to Hemingway to skeevy homeless dude who reads 30 year old copies of Guns & Ammo, sees that your DD's are natural, it's not so cute. Rather now said homeless guy, when he asks for change, seems to be talking to my chest instead of commenting on how he likes my tattoos and wonders "was you in prison or something".

When your 2 year old is sitting in your shopping cart and points out different words of things as you are strolling down the aisle, "banana", "apple", "bread", "milk", it is cute and is met with "Oh he is so smart" or "Wow what a talker!" comments from random people who overhear him. When your 3 year old is sitting in your shopping cart and points out who has a penis and who has a vagina based on the various shoppers in the aisle, it's not so cute. Especially when he gets it wrong and claims that the androgynous looking woman has a penis, while he got all the other ones right.

Halloween this year was also interesting, as Dante's queries of "trick or treat" were always followed by (insert awkward question here). At one house, he asked an older man where his mommy was. At another, he asked a single man if he had children, and at yet another he asked why they had a "bad dog".

And lastly, I'll end on this gem: Our local post office has a rather eccentric character who hangs around. He's a very tall, skinny, old man who likes to talk to walls, comment on social issues like the moon landing, and chat up the people waiting on line. As it happens we were at the post office and Scary McScarerton decides to chat up Dante who, as any 3 year old is prone to do, hides behind my legs. Well, Mr. Scary starts going on a tirade that I am racist and raising my son to hate black people because my son won't talk to him. Which of course, since I can't let anything go and let anyone have the last word (thanks Mom), proceed to tell him that the fact that he is black has nothing to do with my son being shy and that it could possibly be that he looks like the scary dude from Phantasm but with a tan. No, I didn't really say that, but I wanted to. What I did say was that 3 year olds are shy and he is very tall and intimidating and that he was very rude to imply that it had anything to do with race. When we had finished our business in the post office, Dante said "Goodbye man" and I felt vindicated.

Anyhow, two days later we're at the post office again and as we are walking in my lovely son says really loud, "Mommy where's the scary BLACK GUY". At this moment, those words are hanging all over the post office and I suddenly feel as though I am draped in a white hooded sheet emblazoned with swastikas and blasting Al Jolson from some invisible speakers. Where the heck did Dante learn about "black" and "white"? And where is the nearest hole I can jump into? Now I look like Eva Braun and my son is my little Hitler. I proceed to tell Dante that the scary OLD MAN is not here today and that he is not scary to begin with and just likes to talk to everyone. Without missing a beat, my 3 year old points to a man at the counter and says "Look mommy! Another black guy! And he's not scary."

If anyone needs me. I'll be passed out at the bar.

It's Elmo's World. We're All Just Livin' In It.

I have come to the realization that if you are under 6 years old, the only things that matter in the world to you are Elmo, Elmo, food, Elmo, Elmo, juice, Elmo, Elmo, milk, Elmo, Elmo, getting your diaper changed and Elmo. In that order. If you are a parent of an under sixer, or a toddler like I am, you will quickly come to know everything and anything that involves Elmo MUST involve your child.

We took Dante to the local Jump & Gym tonight for a SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCE BY ELMO and Cookie Monster (<---but who cares about Cookie Monster). Let me tell you, the place was mobbed. Mobbed with about 50 kids and sets of parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles/neighbors yadda yadda. You would think it was the Pope (ew!) or the President (bigger ew!) coming to visit. People were manic! Mothers and fathers hustling their kids around as though "Elmo" was going to care that their shirt was rumpled. Grandmothers putting lipstick on while fixing their hair in the small mirror of their Max Factor compacts. Grandfathers and fathers sitting wide eyed in the corners of the room, wondering what the hell the women folk do during the week while they are at work: This?!?!?! Finally, the moment arrived and as the traditional "Elmo" theme song came on, in walked "Elmo"; some $8 an hour party employee sweating their ass off in a tattered looking costume followed by an emaciated "cookie monster" whose zipper must have broken in the back because I could see jeans back there. Despite all of this, you would have though Jesus had just walked into the room. A sort of Close Encounters of the Third Kind polyphonic intonation happened as all the children (and parents) droned in with one melodious "aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" as "Elmo" and "Cookie Monster" entered the room.

Then all hell broke loose.

It turned into a madhouse with parents and children scrambling to get to Elmo and CM for photo ops. Seriously, children and parents were being crushed and elbowed and shoved and pummeled left and right just to get close to the E man. Randy and I held Dante back and just watched the chaos ensue. Honestly, we could not believe our eyes at the behaviour of some of these people. You'd think they were handing out gold bars or something. It was almost horrible to watch. So we wait and wait and wait for the tidal wave of "Me! Me! Me!" to die down and finally get a picture of Dante with Elmo.

The look on his face when he was face to face with Elmo was worth it.

Mommy "No'es" Best

I've become a broken record. No longer can I carry on conversations with eloquence. No longer can I speak in full sentences. Long gone are the days where I can complete a thought. These days my vocabulary consists of one word: NO. Of course, with a rambunctious hellion 20 month old toddler, it is to be expected that he might misbehave once or twice, but as we are not a normal family, I am now a broken record.

"No Dante, do not put the dog's toy in your mouth"

"No Dante, draw on the paper, not the floor"

"No Dante, do not take off your clothes"

"No Dante, do not fingerpaint on the dogs"

"No Dante, the coffee table is not a jumping off platform"

"No Dante, do not throw the DVD remote in the toilet"

And so on and so forth. I am the Negative Nancy of our household. I read a statistic the other day that said toddlers hear the word "no" at least 200 times a day. I think my son hears "no" at least 700 times a day. No, no, no, no, no. I don't even think I am capable of saying "yes" anymore (unless chocolate is involved and then I'll "yes" anyone to death).

Now I've got all this guilt that I am horrible mother for constantly being at odds with D. We used to have great cuddle times and play times, but I now find myself like Mrs. Harridan, chasing him down and saying "No don't do that" and "No cut that out" and "No put that down". Seriously, I think he looks for things to do that would arouse a "No" from me. I mean, you'll never hear me say, "Yes Dante, sit there quietly and read your book while mommy folds laundry." Instead, you get "No Dante, don't rip out the pages of the book and please get off of your dad's folded underpants before you pee all over them". (Dante likes to be Mr. Nude lately while home and refuses even to wear a diaper. I'm tempted to put newspaper down and get wee wee pads at the pet store).

Honestly, I'm "no-eing" myself into a stupor and I'm sure it will only get worse from here:

"No Dante, you can't borrow the car"

"No Dante, you can't stay out until 2 in the morning"

"No Dante, that girl is a tramp"

"No Dante, that guy is a tramp" (We're all inclusive here, no favoritism)

"No Dante, doing a wheelie on your bike while blindfolded is not a good idea"

Will I ever be able to be a "yes" woman again?