“What if he stays like this forever?” my husband laments as we drive home with a thrashing, screeching three-year-old strapped into the car. “I’m certain it’s just a phase,” I reassure myself, albeit with a hint of anxiety. This was our first child, so I was far from convinced that this was merely a phase. After all, I had no other experiences to draw from, no assurance that this intense, raging, tantrum-throwing little monster would eventually mellow out.
What had shifted in the last month? What had happened to the sweet baby we once knew? We’d navigated the so-called “terrible twos” with minimal chaos. It was supposed to be smooth sailing until adolescence, right? The person who coined the term “the terrible twos” must have skipped town during his child’s third year.
Sure, my little guy had his moments at two, but nothing prepared me for the storm that erupted just a week after his third birthday.
After a rushed trip to Target with my cranky son strapped into the cart, we found ourselves in a painfully slow-moving checkout line. Leo was getting more restless by the second, squirming and whining, pleading to be released from what he presumably viewed as a punishment. I denied his requests, thinking we were almost done, but my persistence only fueled his fury.
Just as the cashier began scanning our items, the dam of his pent-up rage broke, and a torrent of profanity erupted from his tiny frame. “MOTHER F—KER! MOTHER F—KER! MOTHER F—KER!” I was rendered speechless, shocked at the foulness spilling from his little lips. Where in the world did he pick up such language? Certainly not from me! What on earth was I supposed to do? Ignoring it wasn’t an option, and, oh my goodness, everyone was staring.
Amidst my inner turmoil, I noticed the teenage cashier cracking up. As a high school teacher, I couldn’t hold back: “You think this is funny? A three-year-old is shouting profanity in public to get what he wants. He looks up to you, and your laughter is teaching him that this behavior is acceptable. Shame on you!” Admittedly, my anger may have been misdirected.
The Target incident was only eclipsed by a battle of wills with my three-year-old daughter, Lily, over a pair of shoes that just didn’t fit. “I WANT THEM! I WANT THEM!” she screamed. “I know you do, but they don’t fit. Let’s try your sparkly pair instead,” I suggested. “NO! NO! I WANT THEM!” she howled, flailing on the floor.
This absurd standoff lasted a good ten minutes, as I wrestled to get her into her sparkle shoes while watching the clock tick away—I had completely forgotten to build in a 15-minute tantrum buffer. “NO! I CAN DO IT! I WANT TO DO IT!” she yelled.
Finally, I reached my breaking point. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME, LILY! I have to get to work!” I pleaded, shoving her shoes onto her kicking feet while being bombarded by her flailing arms. I scooped her under my arm, envisioning an unwilling 28-pound football, and headed out the door. It was 6:15 a.m. on a frosty winter morning, pitch black outside, and most of the neighbors were still nestled in their beds—at least, they were until the drama unfolded.
With lights flicking on in the houses nearby, I could only assume I looked like a kidnapper trying to steal a frantic child. But really, I was just trying to get my daughter into a pair of shoes and into the car.
Here’s an embarrassing truth: as I write this, Lily is my muse. While jumping on the couch, an activity she knows is forbidden, she accidentally kicks her dad in the face. I calmly send her to the Naughty Spot. “NO!” she defiantly retorts, adding insult to injury by spitting at me.
I take a deep breath and start my 1-2-3 Magic training: “One. Go to the Naughty Spot.” “NO!” she protests, showering me with saliva. “Two. Go to the Naughty Spot.” “NO!” she screams again, drenching me once more. My stomach churns as I struggle to keep my cool. If this is how she is at three, what will I face when she’s thirteen?
“Three. Move to the Naughty Spot or you’ll be heading to bed now, without a story.” In her final act of defiance, she gathers a mouthful of spit and lets out a dramatic raspberry. “Okay. Take her up to bed,” I instruct my husband. “NO! I want a different mommy. YOU ARE NOT NICE!” she shrieks.
The next twenty minutes are a cacophony of high-pitched screams and tears, but eventually, she’s coaxed into bed. The only remedy I can think of for this outrageous behavior? A fourth birthday.
My little princess turns four at the end of December, and this year, it’s not Christmas I’m eagerly awaiting—it’s her birthday.
For more parenting stories like this one, check out this insightful post on Cervical Insemination for engaging content that resonates with all parents. If you’re considering at-home insemination, visit Make a Mom for quality kits. And for further information on fertility challenges, the CDC provides a wealth of knowledge.
In summary, navigating the turbulent threes can feel overwhelming and chaotic, filled with tantrums, power struggles, and unexpected outbursts. Remember, it’s just a phase, and we’re all in this together!
Leave a Reply