Oh, my Brennan will be the death of me.
I always said that 16-20ish months was my least favorite age span. While it's a fun time because they learn so much, they're also caught in this struggle between GET AWAY MOMMY I CAN DO IT MYSELF and DEAR GOD MOMMY WHY DID YOU LEAVE MY LINE OF SIGHT?!
But now, I'd gladly take 2 kids in that age range in exchange for one 3.25 year old. I can say that with complete and utter confidence because I currently have two 17 month olds. And I would gladly deal with them and their um, "intense" emotions, rather than have to deal with the completely bipolar being that is my firstborn.
Sure, he loves to snuggle. He loves to stop and say, "Mommy, I just love you." He loves to curl up to read books and giggle when the garbage truck in his current fave book burps after a big trashy meal. He loves to demand a big hug and a big kiss. And he loves to remind me that I'm his best friend.
But when Brennan isn't being the world's sweetest child? He's driving me to drink.
It's the wild running through the house despite repeated
screams reminders to slow down.
It's the full force body blows to his brothers when they look at him the wrong way.
It's the full out screaming fits when the TV gets turned off, it's time to come inside for dinner, or he gets milk instead of juice.
It's the look he gives me right before he runs the other way when I've asked him to "Come.Here.Now.Please."
It's the way he runs his hand along every glass jar of spaghetti sauce in the grocery store 3.2 seconds after I've had a face-to-face, explanation and discussion about why he shouldn't touch things on the shelves.
I try to tell myself that he's just exerting his independence. That he just wants to feel grown up and bigger than his brothers and just like Daddy. That he is so anxious to soak up new experiences and push boundaries and learn everything he possibly can.
I know that it's all true. But, seriously. Why can't he just do it all in a rational way?
I know. Because he's THREE.
Three isn't rational. It's wild and crazy and fun and sweet and terrible and dra-ma.
I love when he tells me that "I am have!" when I've told him to behave. I love that he says "Mommy I'm dery sorry for hurting your brother" when he pushes/hits/punches one of the twins. I love that he tells me that I "hurt his life" or that I can't tell him "No" because "that's not a dery nice thing to say to me" when I tell him he can't have a cookie. I love him more than life itself.
But honestly? I don't love 3.25.
And I that's OK.
Because at night, after stories have been read, blankets have been tucked, countless return trips to bed have been made ... and he finally falls asleep,
I can stare at this face. And marvel at how much he still looks like a baby. Which reminds me that he is still a baby. That's the trouble with 3. So much of a baby, yet so much of a big boy, that he's bursting with overflowing emotions. They have no where to go but out.
So I'll fight the good fight and weather the storm and do all that stuff that they tell you to do. Because 3 can't last forever. And I hear 4 is pretty great.
God help me when I have two 3 year olds.