The Precurser?

If the three’s are a precursor to my child’s teenage years, then boy am I in trouble.

My darling, beautiful baby has transformed into a bossy, whirlwind of a personality. Sometimes I’m scared. And sometimes I’m a little bit proud.

Last year, when she was only two, we had recently moved into a new house and gave her a room of her very own.  It took her approximately six days to get angry enough to realize she had a door, slam aforementioned door and call from the other side, “LEAVE ME ALONE.”  My husband and I stood together, mouths agape. I’ve never said that phrase in her ear shot. Ever. In fact, I probably haven’t said those words since I was 13.

This now three-year-old child, who is in the 5^th percentile for height, once body-slammed one of her friends in a move Hulk Hogan would be jealous of. She took that kid down like a WWE wrestler, all hyped up on apple juice and excitement. She didn’t throw him to the floor out of anger, but because she had been wrestling a lot with her father, and wanted to show-off her new moves…and I get it. It was kind of impressive. (Note: Knowing her reason for the attack did not alleviate any of my embarrassment when the incident occurred. I couldn’t really placate the other mother by saying, “Well it was pretty cool, yeah?”)

When this curly-haired angel with the temper of a hormonal 15-year-old gets really angry, her face shrivels up like a dried-out orange and explodes, shooting a preschool version of profanity all over the place. When I react and shriek at her, “Stop yelling me! That is not ok!” she screeches in response, “You yelled at me! I’m yelling at you!”

Touché, small child. Touché.

But her feisty nature and willingness to stand up to people who are bigger than she is (so…everyone), can also be a blessing. At the park, when one of her friend’s toys was stolen, she marched right over to the big kid who stole it and said, “No. That isn’t yours.” She took that toy right of his hands and marched it back to her playmate.

When her little brother was playing with his shovel in the sand, and another kid tried to take it from him, she intervened before I could even get up from the picnic blanket. She said, “That isn’t yours, boy. That’s my brother’s. You need to give it back. RIGHT. NOW.”  And he did.

I guess the only consolation I find is that hopefully if her lively temper re-surges in her teenage years, it will also come with a strong will and the need to protect and defend. She may make my hair turn white before I’m 40, but at least I can be confident she won’t take shit from anyone…including her mother.