Three is Frustrating

Don’t get me wrong; three is a fun and fascinating age (though I think all of their ages have been so very special in their own ways.) I suddenly have a little daughter instead of just a toddler.
But three is frustrating.

She is frustrated. One day she can zip her coat on the first try, and the next she can’t do it after thirty times, and there is no way she’s letting anyone help her.

I am frustrated. I want to help. I want to let her figure it out. I want to encourage. I want to be only ten minutes late instead of thirty-five.

She is amazing. She “reads” her books to herself when I am reading to Dylan, getting so many of the words correct, not from sight but from memory, after hearing them only once or twice.

She is frustrated. Dylan refuses to sit through anything much longer than Goodnight Moon.

I am grasping at straws. I’ve taken to giving dramatic readings of children’s stories, in the hopes that acting out The Cat in the Hat will engage both of them instead of just Abbey.

She is enthralled. She gets to pick her own shoes, and there are so many options. Sparkly, pink, purple, ties, velcro? (Pink Converse All Stars were the casual winners, bright pink patent leather to go with the Easter dress!)

She is frustrated. Mommy doesn’t want to buy the bright pink, plastic flip flops with the gigantic flower (for me, not her.)

Dylan is practically climbing out of his stroller. Who knew there were so many shoes in the world, and why does my sister need to see all of them?

If only they sold patience next to this season’s wedge heels. I’d buy some for all of us.


This post is in response to the Mama Kat's Writing Workshop prompt: What I lack . . .Because what I lack is the patience of Job. I’m working on it, though!

this was after about a million unsuccessful zippering attempts

she's half laughing and half mad, not crying

I'm not mean enough to find the camera when she's crying