Age Three, I Eat My Words

Okay, okay, so I gave three-year olds a bad rap. Let’s put it this way: when they’re going through a tough spell, they’ll give you a run for your money that – in my opinion – beats the 2-year old version.

But it’s like the old poem my mom used to recite to me all the time when I was a kid: “There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; and when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid!” (And, hey! Now that I think about it, thanks a lot, Mom!)

We’re back into a phase of “very, very good” and I’m so grateful. No fusses about naps or bedtime, no potty accidents, adjusting to the new nanny and nursery school beautifully. Lyle thanks me for each and every meal I give him (“Thanks for this peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Mommy! I yove it!”). He’s happy and confident and all about being a Big Boy.

And now that we’re in this stage of the game, I am not only remembering 3-year old Baxter throwing books at me and making me cry in frustration. No, now I am also remembering how difficult it was for Matt and me to decide if we wanted another baby when Baxter was this age – because of how much easier parenting had gotten. I can suddenly recall wondering why we’d want to start all over again with a newborn just when things were getting so much better. Boy am I glad we did.

My little big boy and I took a walk through the neighborhood to nursery school this morning. It was a beautiful morning. I’ve posted a photo set here.

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