web analytics

Life with a “Threenager”

I read an article the other day called “10 Signs You are Living with a Threenager.” If you aren’t familiar with the term “threenager,” just picture an irrational, raging, unreasonable, infuriating teenager inside of a tiny three year old body. Yup. Writer Kristen Hewitt hit the nail right on the head with this one. And after reading her article, I am most definite that we are embarking on the threenage years. God help me.

When my son was about 18 months old, I feared the approaching, so-called terrible twos. He was always such a sweet baby, but he was showing signs of stubbornness and persistence even then. I thought for sure we were totally screwed. But to my surprise, my sweet baby turned two last February and became this awesome, hilarious toddler that had so many funny things to say, and for the most part, was pretty easy to handle. He was still young enough in which he loved me more than life itself but old enough for me to be able to take him to do some really cool stuff – we spent our summer together playing outside, swimming, riding bikes; we even took him to play mini golf for the first time. It was a pretty awesome time. And it was somewhere during these enjoyable months that I became bat shit crazy and had the bright idea that because my son was so cool, we should definitely have another child. (Slow head shake).

Fast forward several months later. Mommy is currently six months pregnant and Grey is about three weeks shy of three years old. And it’s happening. My lovable, happy-go-lucky boy has slowly turned into an independent, bossy, know-it-all, relentless threeanger.

Here’s the moment I realized that age three was most definitely going to be more challenging than age two. He woke up from his nap, like any other day, asking for juice. Fine. Totally normal, besides his slightly demanding tone. I poured the kid a cup of OJ and handed it to him, which was followed by full on, toddler-crazed tantruming, ear-splitting screaming, and some pretty impressive flailing around. I’m pretty sure my jaw hit the floor as I watched what was happening before my eyes. After several minutes of deciphering the high-pitched shrieks, I realized that apparently, I had chosen the wrong cup. That’s right – all this insanity over the wrong fucking cup. Let the games begin.

What’s amazing is that these episodes are often mere minutes of possessed preschooler behavior before he quickly returns to his typical, easy going self – which is sometimes even more terrifying than the actual tantrums.

And tonight was no exception. My happily playing three year old turned into a total banshee at the mere mention of bath time. I’m so mind blown by the castastrophe that occurred that I won’t even go into the details, but picture my three year old attempting to trash the shit out of my bathroom while I stripped him and quickly tossed him into the shower just long enough to soap him up and drag him out. The neighbors probably thought I was attempting to torture someone in my tiny bathroom. Seriously, I was just trying to wash the Play Doh out of his hair, god forbid. Somewhere during this outrageous episode, I told him he wasn’t allowed to watch a TV show before bedtime due to his insane behavior, which just further infuriated his tiny threenage soul. After saying that, I had to chuckle to myself. I had just grounded my kid for the first time and he’s literally three years old. I’m so screwed.

After several similar incidents over the past few weeks, I came across Kristen’s article and it hit me. This is it. Buckle up everyone. Not only are we entering the threeange years, but in just four short months, there will be a newborn in this house as well. Say a prayer for me.

Maternity Meltdown

A few weeks back, I set out on a mission to buy myself some maternity clothes. I’m finally giving in – my pants don’t zip, my belly band is too tight, and as my four year old Pre-K students so bluntly like to remind me, my “tummy is getting very big.”

On a normal day, most women would relish in the opportunity to head out on a shopping spree spending some money on themselves for whatever it is they might need (or want, simply) at that exact moment. For some women, shopping is a hobby and spending money is a practiced skill. Some women shop so much that they are forced to hide their habits from their husbands by stuffing their bags into the back of their closets and wearing new their purchases slowly so that their significant others don’t notice how much they actually spent in one trip.

So when my husband actually encouraged me to go spend some cash on myself a few weeks back, you’d think I’d be thrilled. Here’s the thing. If you’ve read my blog before, you might already know that I’m not a huge shopping fan in the first place. I try to avoid the mall for the most part and I hate the process of picking out new stuff, trying it on, and so on – UNLESS of course, I am at Target. I can walk into Target for a bag of dog food and literally leave after spending $250 on a slew of shit that I surely don’t need. But for the most part, shopping is on a need-to-only basis.

As if I don’t already dislike shopping enough, shopping for maternity clothes is last on my list of things I ever want to do (except for shopping for post-partum clothing – that definitely takes the cake for the shittiest task ever). For living in a decent sized city, you’ll be shocked to find out that there are really only a small selection of stores in the area that even carry maternity options. I was set on the fact that I needed a decent pair of jeans and a formal dress to wear to some upcoming events (two of the hardest things to find, even when you aren’t preggo).

I stopped into the local maternity store thinking it was a sure thing. I mean, it’s an entire store devoted to maternity clothing, right? The first thing I noticed is that the jeans section was almost completely bare. Where the hell were all the jeans? There were only a few different styles in the first place and the majority of the inventory looked picked over. There wasn’t one pair of jeans in my size. Fail #1.

At that point, I was slightly disappointed considering my currently ill-fitting, unzipped skinny jeans were cutting off the circulation in my legs. I was really looking forward to sporting some spandex around the waist. But I shrugged it off and moved on. I headed over to the “dress section,” or really, the six different dress options that the store carries. I swore I looked online before entering this shop and saw tons of super cute stuff – so why wasn’t any of that stocked in this location? I realized it didn’t even matter if I liked the dress or not. I had two weddings and a work event to attend and I needed something ASAP. I decided to just grab a bunch of stuff and starting trying it on. Unfortunately, out of the six dresses that might actually be formal enough for what I was going to, they only had three in my size. I put on the dresses one by one – too big in the belly, too big in the boobs, too short on legs. Fail #2.  Somewhere along the line, the saleswoman (who had been previously busy chatting with her friend on the phone) decided to attempt to help me, but it was too late. She should have known the minute I walked in door that as a hormonal, emotional, pregnant woman, I needed help well before this point. I was overwhelmed, disappointed, and in a full pregnancy-induced sweat. Thus, I walked out.

And where should every woman go when you’re feeling depressed and in need of some serious retail therapy? You guessed it – Target. Thankfully, I knew Target carried a line of maternity clothes (plus I could buy a bunch of other random crap while I was at it). I walked straight back to the maternity section only to find a similar situation. Very few style options, very limited variety of sizes. I spotted one item of clothing that somewhat resembled a dress and made my way over to it. As I got closer, I became more and more…. confused. Was it a dress? Was it a shirt? Was it supposed to be pajamas? What the fuck was this thing?!?! It was like a gray, cotton, three quarter length sleeved potato sack.

Unidentified item of clothing....... WTF is this thing?!?!?

Unidentified item of clothing……. WTF is this thing?!?!?

Sometime after the potato sack encounter, I began to have a full on maternity meltdown. I may have blacked out, wandered around Target for another half hour, and then sobbed into my steering wheel after a day filled with shopping failures.

Needless to say, it was a miserable day for finding any clothes. After going home, drinking several mocktails, pounding some chocolate, and sleeping off my meltdown, I did end up finding one pair of jeans in the very small section of designated maternity clothing at Old Navy. I can officially hang up my pre-pregnancy skinny jeans, until further notice (hopefully).

A win for Old Navy - jeans in my size with a nice, stretchy, elastic waistline.

A win for Old Navy – jeans in my size with a nice, stretchy, elastic waistline.

The moral of the story is this: In order to avoid any maternity store meltdowns, if you encounter any clothing resembling a potato sack while shopping for clothing, give up, go home, and shop online ladies. And hopefully, you have better luck than me!

He or She?? What Will Baby Be: The Gender Reveal

He or she?? What will baby be....

He or she?? What will baby be….

When I was pregnant the first time in 2012, my husband and I were counting the days until we could find out the sex of the baby. When we were asked if we wanted a boy or a girl, we gave the politically correct stating that we simply wanted a healthy baby (which we did, of course). And on the inside, we were both screaming, “BOY! LET IT BE A BOY!” My husband wanted a boy for obvious reasons – he had visions of throwing the baseball in the backyard and watching football on Sundays with his son. I wanted a boy simply because the idea of some day having to deal with a teenage girl absolutely terrified me. When the ultrasound tech told us that it was indeed a boy, I’m pretty sure we cried sweet tears of relief. We didn’t plan any special gender reveal – we simply texted our family and friends that our little boy was en route.

With this pregnancy, I had the same anticipation in finding out the sex of baby #2. This time around, I wanted to know the gender for different reasons – like whether or not I could toss the 45 bins of boy clothes in my basement or if I should get busy sorting and washing them. I can honestly say that I didn’t really have a particular preference this time around, just more of a burning curiosity. My pregnancy has felt pretty different than the first time around and I started to convince myself it was a girl. Only a little girl could cause such horrible nighttime nausea, pimples like a pubescent teenager, and cravings for limitless amounts of chocolate. All things I didn’t experience the first time I around, so I was secretly certain it just HAD to be a girl. Plus, the ring on a string test and the Chinese calendar said girl, and that shit is never wrong. Right?

On top of the fact that I was sure it was a girl, my husband’s side of the family has four grandsons, including our two year old. In my mind, the odds pointed to girl. How could we possibly end up with five little boys running around our future family gatherings? And I’m fairly certain my mother in law was looking forward to someday getting to spoil a little girl with princess things and everything pink. I have to admit, the idea of having a girl was slowly starting to grow on me… and so we counted down the days until that faithful ultrasound.

Last Monday morning, we were finally headed to the hospital with our son to find out the gender of baby #2. After drinking the required 32oz of water prior to the test, arriving 15 minutes early and having to wait for our appointment, I was more than anxious to get started. As I lay on the ultrasound table, I prayed that everything look healthy, that the baby would cooperate so we could find out the sex, and that I wouldn’t pee on the poor technician (32oz is A LOT of water, especially with a kid kicking your bladder).

It took what seemed like forever for her to get the necessary anatomical measurements before she attempted to tell us whether we were having a boy or a girl. Of course, when it was finally time for the big news, baby didn’t want to move its legs for us to sneak a peek. I made sure to tell the technician that I would do whatever it takes – Pound some sugary OJ, stand on my head, run circles around the waiting room – I was going to make that baby move if it was the last thing I did that morning. Luckily, our stubborn peanut finally gave in as I heard the technician say,

“I think….. it’s a boy!”

You think? What the hell does that mean? Is there a penis or not?????

But sure enough, after another minute or two, she confirmed that it was indeed another little boy. I was filled mostly with feelings of shock, then overcome with sheer terror – I had visions of my future unfolding before my eyes – fist fights, rough housing, toilet seats endlessly left up – I knew immediately that I was forever outnumbered.

I drove home in silence, still shocked by the thought of what life would be like with TWO crazy little boys running around my household. I know nobody likes to admit it, but I’m not ashamed to say that I was a little fearful of the amount of testosterone that was about to overcome my home. I can honestly say that it took me about two hours to fully embrace the idea that while I won’t ever get to take a daughter wedding dress shopping, I will love having a little brood of boys who will always secretly love their mother more than any other woman in the world.

And not to mention, I’ll never have to deal with a PMSing, back-talking, drama-loving, rebelling teenage girl. Thank God for that.

Because we had our family coming in for dinner the day after Christmas, we decided to have a little gender reveal cake to share our baby boy news. Because of the fact that we were making a big deal about keeping the secret and cutting the cake, I’m pretty sure our entire family was also convinced that we were having the very first granddaughter on my husband’s side of the family. And while I’m sure everyone else was probably just as surprised as I was, they were all still thrilled and excited for us.

It's a..... BOY!

It’s a….. BOY!

And the best part about a gender reveal party for the two year old big brother??? An excuse to eat a shit ton of cake, of course!

My little cake monster :)

My little cake monster 🙂