Three.
I had to go back to read what I had to say about Cole when he turned three. I wasn't very nice about it. I apparently really, really didn't like year three.
I'm not going to be nice about the Tills and her year three now, either. But at least I'll be honest.
Cole was nasty at three. They were his rules. His terms. I eventually folded and obeyed. Things got much easier for me once I did. Thankfully, through it all, it was our secret. Our little dirty family secret.
The secret that the three year old won because he literally outlasted (and oftentimes, outwitted) the grown ups. Mentally and physically. Let's even add psychoso-maticaly. In fact, we should have added that one, first. He was still the sweet, kind, rule-obeying boy everyone loved at school, with his grandparents, and even (at times) with me if others were watching.. . .just not when we were alone. Not ever when we were alone.
With Tills, it's different. She is just as nasty. All of the rules are her rules. The terms? Hers. The difference?
She doesn't care if it me, her father, her grandfather, her teacher, her teacher's teacher, the president. . .whoever! She's not listening to anyone.
Anyone, people. And it's getting bad.
Now...before you get all "you're the parent and you need to get this kid under control", trust me. I've tried. I'm trying. I'm dishing out time outs and taking away toys faster than she can push another kid to the ground.
No, wait. That's the problem. I'm not dishing them out faster than that....but I'm going as fast as I can!
I literally dread dropping them off at daycare in the morning. I try to get in, get out, and not make eye contact with anyone. Leave no trace. Be a whisper like the wind.
This is usually the scene:
I'm late for work (again) because Tilly took her clothes off three times throughout the morning, put a shoe in the toilet and then hid her lunch box. So clearly I'm already annoyed. I'm trying to get in, get out . . .but they stop me. I know it's coming, too.
"Oh, Erika. . .I was hoping it was you. Got a minute?"
Just typing it makes me get a knot in my neck.
"Oh, good morning Miss It-Doesn't-Matter-Because-Tilly-Doesn't-Listen-To-You-Anyway! Of course I have time."
Then the teacher tells me whatever terrible thing she did yesterday that centers around her complete disregard for any law and order. They give her a time out. She doesn't care. They take away outside play time. She could care less.
In fact? The Tills?
Actually told a teacher that she wanted a different teacher to give her the time out, because she "didn't care for" the first teacher!
People? What am I supposed to do with that? Of course, besides apologizing profusely and overcompensating with the teachers' holiday gifts?
She's got two settings: complete angel or not-listening-to-nobody-no-how-no-matter-who-the-hell-is-talking.
There was the time she wouldn't unlock the bathroom door and a teacher had to go in to get her. But before they could get their big grown up body under the little kid-sized bathroom door, Till's has climbed to the next stall and took off running out of the bathroom and down the hall.
Or the time she hid all the other kids' art projects and wouldn't tell anyone where she'd put them. (but come on. . .really? All of the projects? That one was a little tough to believe. . .)
Or how about the time she told the older teacher that she had a mustache like her dad. Innocent? Yes. Helping her situation any? No!
And I just apologize. Ask what I can do to help. Tell them that she's really a sweet kid. Because she is. And I'm not going to be one of these people that thinks my kid doesn't do anything wrong because they are my kid. I know this devil. And it can be awful.
But she's still sweet. Sweet and young and learning and exploring.
And defiant and relentless and smart and cunning and really, really good at hiding stuff.
So . . .I figure the only thing to do is to use what God gave me. . .Cole.
I've started to have in depth conversations with him whenever she's around about listening. And how much we love it. And how grown ups are fantastic. And fun to listen to.
Cole plays along perfectly.
"Oh yeah, mom. It's super fun to listen to grown ups. Plus they get you stuff." Amen little buddy. Amen.
Okay, okay. . .maybe I've got some work left to do on Cole, but cut me a break for a bit.
Every morning, before school we stand in the kitchen and hold hands, we bow our heads and promise each other that we'll try our hardest to listen to grown ups today. And to be friendly even if we don't like everyone. And not to tell women that you see their mustaches.
It's never too early to learn that life lesson.
It works. Sometimes. Her good days seem to correlate to when I can spend uninterrupted time with her the night before. Funny how that happens, huh? Could it be that simple? That she's acting out to get my attention...my good attention?
So tough to find that time, though. You know. . when there's laundry and dishes and dinner and "(*&#$ Till! Why are you touching your poop, again?!?"
It doesn't leave a whole lot of time for much else. Because tomorrow is another day and if I'm late again because you took your lunch box, hid under the dining room table and ate what was in it while I was getting Cole dressed. . I'LL SERIOUSLY LOSE IT.
And we just turned three. We still have three hundred-sixty-one days of it left. It feels insurmountable. I'm just hoping it's kind of like when Cole went through that phase where he wouldn't stop eating his boogers, you know?
If I just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat the message . . .maybe I'll get so annoying they will listen.
We don't eat boogers, Cole.
We don't eat boogers.
We don't eat boogers.
Boogers aren't for eating.
Do you need a tissue.
Don't eat your boogers.
FINE MOM. GIMME A TISSUE.
And I'm going to try to spend more of our few precious hours at home together in the evening just for them. Uninterrupted. Undiluted. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, any advice you can give me on ways to harness this independent energy into positive manifestations...would be appreciated.
Because I'm serious about her eating her lunch under the table while we're getting ready for school. I can't take much more of that.
