Oh. My. God.
Massive mood swings.
Mom is an idiot who knows nothing about anything.
Do I have a teenager? No, I have a three year old. But clearly, three is the new thirteen.
I figured we had a few more years before we had to deal with this.
Nope. We're at a fun stage where you never know which kid you're getting. The sweet, mature, well spoken three year old? The silly, rambunctious three year old? The stubborn, authority challenging three year old? Or the teenager in the body of a three year old?
She's a precocious kid, but I thought we'd wait until double digits before we had conversations like this:
Me: Would you like to wear this outfit, or this outfit to school today?
Madison: Mom. I wore both of those to school already. I can't wear the same thing again. I need new clothes.
Oh, excuse me, Little Miss Fashionista. Were you planning on getting a job to help support your clotheshorse habits?
Me: Time to do hair! Do you want piggies, or a pony, or braids?
Madison: Mom. Piggies are for babies. Just let me do it myself.
Yeah...until you either develop the motor skills to do it yourself or are willing to get a haircut, you're stuck with me kiddo, but thanks.
Me: That looks like fun! What are you playing with?
Madison: Mom. Just let me play by myself! (Slams door).
Well, excuse me for asking!
Me: You look sad! What's wrong?
Madison: Mom. Just leave me alone. (Throws self on floor in the depths of despair).
Were you reading all those "moms" in the voice of a snarky, exasperated thirteen year old drama queen?
Good, because that's what they sound like. Every time. I have no idea where she picked up that tone and attitude. Even the most dramatic of the Disney cartoon characters don't have quite the teenage angst that I get to witness.
She's moody. She's easily aggravated. She's exasperated by my cluelessness. She has strong opinions. She doesn't like being treated like a baby (and by baby, I mean like a kid her age). She's a social butterfly with the girls at school, but annoyed when you ask too much of what they do together. She lords over her little sister, aware that she is worlds above where this poor little baby dwells. She swings from gloriously bubbly to desperately dramatic.
She is a teenager.
And just when I'm ready to go ahead and ship her off, she's back to a sweet, smart, loving three year old. Eager to learn, happy to play, content to snuggle. Challenging? Of course. But what a preschooler should be.
Is three the new thirteen?
I certainly hope so. Because that means that by the time she's actually a teenager, we'll have made it through all the adolescent angst, and I'll have a lovely, respectful, grown up child.