[Here's a piece that I drafted several months ago but for some reason didn't post. Things have improved since I wrote it, I'm happy to say.]
Life with a three-year-old is hard. As a solo parent, I have no one to back me up when I insist that hands should be washed before meals, or that it is in fact bedtime. Or conversely, no one to step in and send ME for a time-out when I’m making unreasonable demands. And DB has a lot of brainpower free to figure out how to exploit my weaknesses. He’s not concerned about laundry or bills or grocery shopping; the banana just magically appears every day at the breakfast table. His teachers say they are impressed with his language skills, and I wonder if he shouts “Stop TELLING me!” at them the way he does with me.
Tonight at dinner, I watched as he polished off his chicken and broccoli without a shred of fuss. He did the same at lunch with his mac and cheese and grapes. I thought back eighteen months or so, when it seemed that he would never ever expand his repertoire beyond graham crackers with peanut butter. And so I take heart in the idea that one day, logic and reason will be embraced. He won’t be three years old forever. I just hope we both live long enough to taste the fruits of four.