A Letter From Your Threenager

Dearest mom,

I am writing this letter because I’d like to fill you in on a few things. A few very important things that you definitely need to know. You are always wondering why I get angry or lose it over the littlest things. You are always asking me the questions like “what’s wrong?” or “what do you need?”  or "why are you crying?" In your mind I am an angry little dictator…always demanding something. Maybe I kind of am. The truth is, mom, you just don’t really understand me. I feel that my demands are very clear, but you somehow seem to mess it up every single time. 

You just don’t get shit right. Simple as that. How hard is it to know when I want the pink cup or that I HATE those pants...or wearing pants at all? Sometimes, you even give me snacks that I hate. Never mind that I just asked for it. Come on, mom. Figure. This. Out. 

Let me give you a few examples of your ineptitude.

• You never understand my words. Literally. Are you stupid? 
• I don’t want your help. With anything. Ever. I can do it myself…until I do want your help. Then, drop what you are doing and help me immediately. Hurry! Do you want me to lose it again?
• You are always rushing me. Just stop. If it takes me until hell freezes over to put on one slip-on shoe, then so be it. It needs to be just right…so stop rushing.
• Pants are the devil. Stop making me wear them. I prefer to be pants-less at all times.
• Sometimes I want a hug and sometimes I don’t. It’s up to you to know when.
• Dinner? I don’t want that shit. I’d rather manhandle all the food on your plate or just eat the stashed candy I keep under my bed.
• Stop trying to pick out my clothes. Seasons don’t matter. If I want to wear a tank top backwards and shorts when it is 10 below zero, then so be it. I’m a fashionista. You’ll see.
• Please just don’t say no. To anything. I am three now. I can make my own decisions. If I want to do art while we are eating dinner, just let me. If I want to take a three-hour bath, let me do that too. If I want to play in the sandbox naked, that’s my choice. No more of this “no” shit. Kapeesh? 
• If I get frustrated about anything, it is going to get thrown directly at you. Probably at your head. Sharpen up your reflexes.
• Figure out my moods…there are really only two: Raging mad or adorably lovey.

So, mom, next time you see me flop around on the floor, screaming hysterically, and completely losing my shit, you need to know it is because of you. Instead of trying to get me to stop, just wait until I am done, applaud my mad tantruming skills, and then give me a hug…and maybe some candy. Unless less I don’t want you to. Figure it out. 

Love,

Your Threenager