Introducing the Frenetic Fours: Pour Me Some Whine

My daughter will be four next month. It seems like yesterday she was this innocent little angel with a head full of soft curls who ate, pooped and slept her way into our hearts. We managed to get through her infant years blissfully unscathed from colic, reflux, "crying it out" and other sleep-inhibiting factors. The toddler zone was tantrum-free. We waited for Year Three to be THE year of fits, kicks and shopping mall embarrassments. But we got nothing. Her daycare teachers raved about her fierce independence yet warned, "You'll have your hands full with this one." Ignoring the warning, my husband and I high-fived our success. We were home free. Or so we thought.

And now, on the cusp of Year Four, our perfect little princess has morphed into Demanding Diva. Her list of requests far outweighs Madonna's or JLO's. Urgent needs usually include immediate access to car keys, iPhone, Kindle, gum and lipstick. And when I say NO I immediately get WHY,  lip service and the droning whine. Now What?

Over the summer my cousin's wife, who lives in the next town over from us, told me this story that I quietly laughed off as "not relevant" at the time. When she moved to her town several years ago, her four year old daughter was wreaking havoc on their lives. When she complained to another mother at the playground one day, the woman  whispered to her, "It's not the terrible twos anymore. It's the effing fours." Pardon my French, but now who's drinking laughing? Here's a few recent anecdotes.

Flippin  Flip Flops
My daughter is obsessed with these cheap pink flip flops that are too small for her feet. She wore them out over the summer and now insists on wearing them to pre-school because, well, Carmella (her friend) wears flip flops. I tried to explain that summer is over and the flip flops need to hibernate. We go through this battle every morning and today was no exception. When I explained that she must wear socks or else her feet with turn blue, she tells me, "No I Don't." When I explained that she won't be allowed to play in the playground at school, I get the comeback, "Yes I can." And then, as I take the stinking flip flops off her feet, I get the inevitable "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" and about 20 minutes of drama.

Starting with "Don't Even Look At Me"

Then the pout (working it).

 

Moving on to attitude.

 

 

More blood boiling defiance.

 

 

And finally, victory.

 

 

OK, I brought the damn sneakers and socks to school and she ended up changing there.
But seriously. . .

Talking Post-It Note
When you have a precocious four-year old you will never forget anything ever again. Ever. Because they constantly remind you, over and over again, to get the things that they need right away. Everyday. Kind of like a talking post-it. And kind of annoying.

Ever have one of those moments when you start talking and, as the words come out of your mouth, your brain is telling you to stop but you can't? It's like the filter never kicked in and you know at the end, you're screwed.

The other night was chilly so I told my kids that it's time for -- drum roll -- fleece footed PJs. As I handed my son his footed Spiderman PJs, the brain alarms sounded and I knew what was coming. A little voice asked, "Where are my PJs with the FEET?" Hmph. Ah, yes. The white Carter's fleece PJs with little monkeys, size 3T. I know exactly where they are --  in a garbage bag at the Goodwill. And like clockwork, she piped up, "And I'm gonna wear MY footed PJs tonight, right?"

Talking on egg shells, I calmly explained that Mommy had to put those PJs away because you got SO much bigger and we'll get a new pair of BIGGER ones in a few days. Somehow she bought it.

The next morning my daughter comes in my room around 7am and stands by my bedside and whispers, "Don't forget to get the monkey PJs with the feet -- TODAY." Thanks post-it.

Three days and three verbal post-it notes later, footed feet with monkeys, size 4T, magically appeared.

Don't get me wrong. Almost four has been a fun age, and age that comes with using the bathroom independently, eating a wide variety of foods, playing with siblings for at least a whole hour without broken limbs, and talking with a more sophisticated vocabulary.

Yet these lovely aspects of growing up are juxtaposed with incidents like this one. Waiting in line at the grocery store, my darling diva belts out, "Heeeeey sexy lady. Where's your peeeeenis. I see your bum bum. Oppa Gangnam style." It ends it with a cackle as I silently mouth to the cashier, "Not mine."

As parents, I suppose we can collectively lament and hope for the best, or look cautiously to the future and take heed as to what's next - the Ferocious Fives and Sucky Sixes. So, in the meantime,   keep the bourbon handy.