Matthew turned three last month. Since the very day he turned three, he’s been a little snot. Yep, I said it. A snot.
He now demonstrates defiance with a smirk and this blinking thing, that, without mincing words, drives me insane.
He’s also begun an all-out strike against sleeping in his room, or, more accurately, sleeping in general.
Naptime, when he doesn’t fall asleep, is difficult at best. He opens his bedroom door, his closet doors, and his blinds, bends down the adjustable lights on his lamp, and drags his heavy, wooden puzzle stool onto his bed. Oh, and then runs back and forth.
Michael, across the hall, has apparently caught the bug, too. He spends his naptime driving imaginary toy cars up and down the inside of his bedroom door. When I finally give in and open the door, he waves, “Hi, Mommy,” from the floor.
And Maggie? How do I say this? Maggie’s the only one taking a nap.
If you know Maggie at all, you know how bizarre that is. But if youreally know Maggie, it makes perfect sense. The nap gives her the extra edge to goad us to the border of psychosis in the middle of the night.
Mealtimes are festivals of flinging, diaper changes are Greco-Roman wrestling exhibitions, and buckling anyone into anything is damn near impossible.
The twins, painfully aware of one another’s existences now, are in perpetual battle for supremacy. If one hugs me, the other hugs me tighter. If one whines, “Mom,” the other whines, “Mommyyyyyyy,” longer and louder. If one kisses me, the other gives more tongue.
And when you throw the three-year-old into the mix, what with all his new food, beverage, and clothing aversions, you’ve got one hell of a party.
The previously complicit children are budding Hellions, and the original Hellion (that’s Maggie) toes the line between (almost) sweet kid and demon seed. I said almost.
My mother, on the phone the other day, ever-helpful about all things parenting offered, “I read this article the other day. Kids change.”
Thanks, Ma. That’s a timely and useful piece of information. It’s a wonder I’m alive.
We’ve been playing red-headed stepchild with Maggie, too. I’m not proud of it, but the thought of bringing her out in public right now gives me hives. Since we don’t know whether we’re going to get Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, we opt out of the game altogether. Plus, we only have enough arms for two violent tantrums.
I know it’s just a phase and it will pass, but any other time I thought I was being given a run for my money looks like a joke now.
They liked pizza yesterday, but it’s all over the floor today. Matthew’s previously ‘favorite’ juice, has just been slid slyly off the table, and the blue socks simply won’t do anymore. And what are you talking about chicken? I hate chicken.
My poor husband’s taken to naming every meal we cook, just so it won’t end up on the floor. So far, he’s created Spiderman Sandwiches, Cowboy Breakfast, Superhero Rice, and Batman something. I can’t keep track.
Yesterday morning, he made the mistake of enthusiastically asking Matthew if he was ready for some “huevos with fromage”. Of course, Matthew flipped out. When we were finally able to calm him down, and explain to him that ‘fromage’ was actually cheese, he decided he didn’t like cheese anymore.
So, yeah. This is pretty much the way it is right now. Chaos.
If you think you’re about to do something right, don’t worry, you won’t.
You’re a parent of two-year-old twins and a three-year-old boy and you suck.