All my life I have heard the world talking about the terrible twos. It was this great fable that carried through all generations and walks of life. I knew that when my daughter turned two she was going to be an absolute terror and it was going to be our job to just get through and make it to three.
These are lies perpetrated by I don’t know who. I don’t know what industry benefits from lying to parents about how awful it is to parent a three year old.
She turned two and things were great. She threw a few tantrums here and there but we were all good, nothing we couldn’t handle. Easy peasy.
At two and a half things got a bit worse and I thought to myself ‘oh, this is more like what I’ve heard, what I’ve seen in other kids,’ but we were still a well-oiled machine. No big deal. This was awesome, what a great kid we had.
If the two are terrible the three is hell on earth.
No one told me. I don’t think anyone tells anyone.
Three fucking sucks.
I don’t know what industry benefits from lying to parents about how awful it is to parent a three year old. Preschools maybe? Parents put their kids in school earlier than they planned because they are so thrown off?
Damn preschool industry.
Three is the time they’re most lucky to be so damn cute.
Except sometimes, three is totally wonderful. Those times when you can forget the nightmare of a knockdown blowout tantrum, the three-hour bedtimes, the slow when you need them to hurry up and the bouncing off the walls when you just want them to calm down, those times can be awesome.
At three you’re constantly reminded that this baby you had is growing up overnight. Every day they seem to learn something new, do something better.
Grow out of the clothes you just bought them.