Three.

A very wise friend once told me that "Three is two with intent." I don't think wiser words have ever been spoken. E has been three for over a couple of months now, and I am (not so) slowly losing my mind. Sometimes, I even find myself wishing he was back in that hitting/pushing phase! Two wasn't easy, but it sure wasn't as hard or as terrible as I had imagined it being. Three is proving to be another story.

When I was teaching my first year, I had an interesting class of grade ones. It was a small class, but it was a hard class. There were many behaviour and learning issues that were hard to address for a first year teacher, but I managed to do a decent job. Until Christmas. After Christmas, J showed up. He was just looking for someone to say NO to and it turned out that I was that perfect person. Within the first week, he showed himself to me and was the first student I ever had that said NO. I didn't know what to do. I tried my normal techniques, but nothing worked and I could feel my blood pressure slowly starting to rise every time. Three is J all over again. And it's different when it's your own child. With someone else's child, it's much easier to maintain your calm and keep your temper. When your own child is being defiant, it is very difficult to find that calmness.

E has developed a handful of behaviours that test my ability to keep my temper in check on a daily basis. From ignoring me to talking back, from hiding to pushing his brother to saying "No," he has learned what pushes my buttons. The worst one though? The one that makes me want to rage and lose my temper mimicking each of the worst times my parents lost their tempers on me (all warranted and deserved by me)? Spitting. I can't stand spitting. As soon as he spits, I want to scream and yell and lock him in his room without supper. I find myself suddenly not so against spanking. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have to not go on a King Kong sized rampage. Now, that's not saying that I haven't ventured down the path of King Kong, but every time that I lose that control, I regret it. Every time that I find myself losing it and starting to yell at E, I feel like the worst mother of the year. I have been mid mommy meltdown and look down to see him covering his ears and asking me not to yell, and it has just broken my heart. And then I see him copying me in how he talks to me or his brother or his stuffed animals and my heart breaks again. 

Three is kicking my butt. And that same wise friend has warned me that four has a different adjective in front of it, one that rhymes with ducking. Lord help me. Or at least give me lots of wine and good friends to commisserate with. And maybe an endless supply of dark chocolate.