Lately it seems like every time I really look at Westley he's taller and more, well,
boyly. It's especially noticeable when he's asleep; he has mastered the art of The Sprawl, which makes his limbs appear three times longer and boyly-er. A couple hours after tucking Westley in and saying good-night, I go into his room to check on him, and
Whoa! Who is this teenager
sleeping in my preschool kid's bed?
Unfortunately, the super-fast growing up doesn't stop at his sleeping posture. Westley has also started sporting an attitude to match his tiny-teenaged appearance. When I asked to give him a hug before he and Grandad took off for an adventure, Westley heaved the biggest sigh I've ever heard come out of a little body and rolled his eyes. He didn't quite say, "Gawd, Mom," but it was there, between the lines of his down-turned mouth.
Westley now gets cross with me for trying to help him, for enforcing even the tiniest of rules, and for no particular reason. Also, whatever you do, do
not suggest that after drinking two giant glasses of tea, he might, just
might need to pee. And if you insist that going on a car trip is contingent on a pre-car bathroom trip, be prepared for a few emphatic
humphs, followed by The Silent Treatment.
"Three-and-a-half going on thirteen," I said to Rob, after Westley had sneered at me and stormed out of the room.
"Threenager," Rob corrected, and Westley's new nickname was born.
I don't know what people were talking about with the "terrible twos." Westley must not have gotten that memo. The twos, as I remember them, were actually quite lovely. They were certainly a picnic compared to the threes, which have been...not
terrible exactly, but definitely filled with all kinds of surprising and interesting challenges. (Although, to be fair to Westley and his budding 'tude, this year has been quite an "interesting" for all of us so far.)
But offsetting Westley's sudden grumpiness, stubbornness, and occasional disgust at my mere presence are random moments of complete sweetness. Yesterday as I sat, chin in hands, feeling especially ill and hormonal, Westley asked, "What can I do to help?" This morning, I was showered with hugs right in the middle of grocery-shopping. And after good-night kisses, Westley has started telling me to "sleep a good sleep, Mommy! No scary dreams!"
Threenager, teenager, whatever: he'll never stop being my sweet little guy.
.....................................
5 comments:
I thought I was the only one with a tiny teenager. Sometimes I swear I'm getting a peek at the future when my now 5 year old daughter tosses her hair and says "FIIINE, MOOOM". Dragged out just like that too.
I just *can't wait* until puberty.
With our first currently in the oven I'm already so worried about this phase. I was what a very kindly person would call a jerkface of a kid, so I seriously hope our little one inherits his/her father's childhood disposition.
I am out of the blog loop. I am not reading anyone else's blog except YOURS at the moment. Because of things like: Threenager, boyly-er and "between the lines of his down turned mouth". *LOVE*
Three was the most difficult age for all four of my kids...until six. And then nine. I have no idea why it goes in increments of three years, but I know many other parents who have experienced the same thing. Twelve and 15 were okay, but my twins will be turning 18 in a few months--I'm a little scared.
I hear you! The "terrible twos" didn't exist for me. Instead, Julian was a total beast when he was 3. Probably not helped by the fact that I had crippling depression and could barely take care of myself. I actually had to go to therapy when he was 3 because I hated him and didn't know how to make him stop doing the opposite of everything I told him to do.
3 is tough.
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