So . . . Zoey turned 3 two days ago. Which means there are 363 days left until she turns 4. And I’m quite sure that if I don’t blog during this time that something bad, very bad, will happen. Because, in case you haven’t heard, the year of three-ness blows. I mean, I think it’s pretty much a given that on a daily basis my head will explode and I’ll want to scoop my ear drums out with a dull spoon. At this point, (yes, that’s right, just two days in) I’m pretty much over cohabitating with an irrational, emotional, manipulative, what’s the word? Oh yeah. WACK JOB.
Let me give you a brief and in no way complete outline of our morning today:
7:15 am: Zoey yells, “I WAKED UP!”
7:16 am: Zoey throws herself on the floor kicking and screaming because, and I quote, “You don’t have enough HANDS so I DON’T LIKE YOU.” Alas, alac, I was unable to carry Zoey, her sippy cup, 4 stuffed animals, 2 books and a blanket down the stairs all at the same time.
7:23 am: Zoey throws herself on the floor because I am eating cereal. “NO!” She wails, “I don’t want you to be hungry!”
7:45 am: After pouring Zoey 2 different bowls of cereal and getting the cereal to milk ratio right (after 3 tries), the cereal is dumped on the floor because (wait for it . . .) I didn’t give her the blue spoon.
7:46 am: Zoey is in timeout yelling, “I want to huuuuug you, Mommy!! I juuust want a huuuuuug!”
7:46:30 am: I consider taking up head banging as a new hobby
7:50 am: Zoey watches PBS kids so that I don’t cry before 8 am
8:00 am: Zoey screams while I wrestle her into clothes and shoes. After getting her in a pair of panties she yells, “I HAVE A WEDGIE!!! YOU GET IT OUT OF MY BUTT, MOMMY! YOU DO IT!”
8:01 am: I explain to Zoey that wedgie picking is not in my job description. The usual crying and throwing herself upon the floor ensues.
8: 30 am: Zoey sits on the potty, does her business and then yells, “MOMMY WIPE MY BUTT! NOW!” There is a brief conversation about using a nice voice, I wipe her butt and simultaneously wonder if Demetri would miss me if I moved to Seattle.
8:33 am: I lure Zoey into her car seat with the promise of a Starburst.
8:34 am: I back out of the driveway to cries of, “NOOOOOO! I don’t want to go where you want to go!”
8:47 am: We arrive at the YMCA. We enter with Zoey clinging to my leg, which I am dragging ungracefully, behind me. That’s right — I’M DRAGGING MY FRICKIN” LEG BEHIND ME like some kind of crazy-ass pirate with a peg leg. Except there’s A KID on my leg.
8:49 am: While limping down the hall to the childcare room Zoey changes tactics and takes hold of my pants and underwear. She pulls down with all her weight.
8:50 am: My white, cottage-cheese-like back-with-a-crack is exposed to those unlucky enough to be in the hallway.
8:52 am: I leave my child happily playing with Barbie in the care of the Y childcare workers. I realize I am not sad to be apart from her.
8:53 am: I am seized by guilt that I don’t want to be around my own child.
9:00 am: I begin spin class and worry that I am a bad mother for the entire hour. I think about asking the other mothers in the class about their 3 year-olds but then decide that they are all most certainly really good moms and none of them probably had their butts exposed in the hallway that morning. Plus, they all have really good hair so I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to them. So I just pedal and sweat pedal and sweat. I briefly wonder if I am perhaps too old to really “get” Lady Gaga.
10:12 am: I walk down the hall to retrieve my daughter and wonder who I will find: Sweet Zoey? Angry Zoey? There is an actual flutter of fear in my chest.
10:13 am: Zoey proudly presents me with the Mother’s Day card she made. I gush over it. And her. We touch noses. She pats me on the back. I think, “Ok. Ok. I can do this a little longer.”
10:15 am: We walk out into the sun holding hands.
10: 17 am: We drive to a friend’s house because, well, sometimes you just need to eat too much pizza and too many M&M’s with another mom who loves you and your kid. Even on your bad days.
Tell me your 3 year-old horror stories. Please.