I have three kids: ages 9, 6, and 3. I’ll give one guess who my “wild child” is.
Yep. You guessed it. The three year old.
Ah, the three year stage is so much fun (said no mom ever).
I don’t know what it is, but when these precious little blessings of God’s best everything turn three, a flip switches in their brains. They go from a mildly frustrating two year old to a feral howler monkey with no sense of personal space. Everything, from putting on socks to eating just one bite of something turns into a battle.
My wild child doesn’t walk, he runs.
He doesn’t speak, he shouts.
He doesn’t hug, he tackles.
And he NEVER. STOPS. TALKING.
I’ve spent many an evening locked in my bathroom, hiding, because the overstimulation is just too much. I’ve cried into my husband’s shoulder because I just couldn’t take one more minute of the non-stop tantrums. I’ve prayed for guidance, read books, and asked friends for advice. Its exhausting and probably the most frustrating stage I’ve seen so far.
But its also so rewarding.
Because my wild child doesn’t just like, he loves. And he loves fierce.
He gives kisses and hugs and snuggles all day long. He wants to learn and asks questions (so many questions). He greets his Mommy and Daddy every morning with a “I so glad to see you!” or “I so happy you here!”. He wants to help so badly, even if he can’t quite grip the broom properly. And man oh man, does he idolize his older siblings.
He teaches me to stop and soak in the wonder of life.
He shows me that, sometimes, you need to run.
He makes me thankful for those sweet, everyday moments that I hope I never forget.
One day my wild child will be tamed and I’ll look back on this time with fond memories. I’ll forget about the headaches and the endless worry and the desire for silence. So for now, I’ll pour an extra cup of coffee, get a set of earplugs, and soak up the cuddles.
