I know kid, you’re not a baby any more. You started preschool, you’re learning all the time. You talk a mile a minute and tell us when we’re wrong. I know you’re growing because you keep needing new pants.
But still, you are a baby. You’re not even three.
We’ve been going along quite peacefully, you and me, for the most part. You’re so good most of the time. You want me to be happy with you, you walk me to play with you and cuddle you and talk to you.
But these past few days kid, you’ve been what people mean when they talk about the terrible twos. You fight with me – hitting and kicking. You’re demanding and spoiled. You yell and you refuse to cooperate. You have your own ideas about everything. It’s wearing me down and I’m becoming a parent I don’t much like too much of the time.
Both of your grandmothers remind Daddy and me that what goes around comes around.
My god I love you and I know that I will forget all these moments when you grow into a strong, forceful woman, but man oh man, kid, you are pushing your luck.