Three. The year that is lasting forever. The year that is making me laugh and cry, but mostly cry.
Having a three year old means I go from moments like this…
In a matter of minutes.
It means a tiny tornado (er, Charnado) of emotions, demands, and messes.
It means never being sure what personality is going to come down the stairs in the morning and wondering how many battles I’m prepared to fight before breakfast.
It means letting her wear a pink party dress to Chick Fil A because that is definitely one battle I’m not fighting.
It means a major meltdown because I won’t let her walk the 20 miles to church.
It means questioning everything from why I wanted kids in the first place to am I really sure I’m not living with a sociopath in pigtails?
It means being so angry and frustrated one second to laughing (and totally thrown for a loop) the next.
It means going for ice cream just because even though neither of us really deserve it, but somehow ice cream helps with forgiveness.
It means getting tough questions (Mommy, why are there bad guys? Why are those people not kind?) and having to be ok with not having a perfect answers.
It means letting her be a sister to her brothers, and figuring out on her own what that looks like. (It’s complicated).
It means watching her learn and try to understand the concept of God, and prayer.
It means both loathing and loving her sassy attitude.
It means riding out these incredibly exhausting, discouraging days because I have so much hope that better days are ahead.