“Chick Chick is my baby. My teeny, tiny little baby,” he declares as he cradles the stuffed toy in his arms. “Awwww. She’s sooo cute!” he continues.
Three is pretty cool. The random flashes of wisdom beyond his years. The memory like an elephant, especially for the things you’d wish he’d forget. His exclamations of “Oh CRASH!” as a train topples off the track that we at first heard as “Oh CRAP!” The role play and pretending. Last night we were playing cars and he said to me “You’re my sister. C’mon sister, let’s drive over here and have a race!”
On the flip side, three is pretty annoying. The stubbornness that doesn’t respond to any threats of punishment. He’ll tell you “I don’t want to watch Chuggington ANYWAY! AT ALL!” as he pouts. The big fat crocodile tears that he calls up when he doesn’t get his way. The continuing shitty eating, now with the maddening “I only like school rice/pizza/pasta.”
But, oh. Even when he’s kind of being an asshole, he’s still “sooo cute.” It’s all slipping by so fast (and yet the next 15ish years of raising him seem like a really long time) and I miss using this space to record it all. So for the fifty frillionth time, committing to writing again.