Three Is NOT The Magic Number

I'd like to meet the person who coined the phrase "Three is the magic number."

Sure, the number three is significant in many different ways: three is a prime number, there were Three Blind Mice, and triangles have three sides.

The number three was also made famous by the old Schoolhouse Rock tune back in the 70's (later covered by the band Blind Melon). It's a catchy and fun song intended to teach kids how to count and multiply by three. You can watch the Blind Melon YouTube video here.

But I'm fairly certain the person who thought of this phrase did NOT have a three-year-old child.

Every year for the girls' birthdays, I create a DVD photo slideshow with music to showcase each month in pictures. I play the DVD at the girls' joint birthday party (since they're only three years and five days apart), and our family and friends love seeing memories of how much they've grown that year.

When my oldest, Madelyn, turned three, I was days away from giving birth to Olivia. I included the aforementioned Blind Melon song  in Madelyn's DVD slideshow, because my husband and I were finally beginning to see examples of her upbeat and sweet personality. The quirky song perfectly matched our quirky girl. She was a little chatterbox, always talking to whoever would listen. We looked forward to all the fun experiences the age of three would bring her.

Of course, the number three is also infamously known in the world of parenthood, because moms and dads fear the "Trying Threes," or the "Terrifying Threes," or the wrath of the "Threenager."

Madelyn rarely exhibited any of those stereotypical behaviors. Now, she did leave her mark on the Terrible Twos, but my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief when her fourth birthday arrived sans memorable meltdowns.

Fast forward three whirlwind years later to our youngest daughter, Olivia.

The Toddler Train had arrived at the crossroads of ages two and three. As Olivia's train chugged forward, would we be lucky enough a second time to avoid any Trying Three behavior?

Nope. No way. There must have been a big, friggin' train derailment. Tons of smoke (sometimes, I think I see some coming out of her ears), the wheels are always off track (meltdowns in any public place), and the train's horn is permanently blaring (shrieking and screaming).

Our sweet girl has suddenly been replaced by a crying, screaming, stubborn, door-slamming, object-chucking, tantrum-throwing and dare I say demonic three-year-old.

She's only been three for thirty days.

Calgon, Wine, take me away.

Olivia's Trying Three behavior begins early each morning at 6:15, when we have to wake the girls up for school and the sitter. It's like waking a sleeping lion. She bats her paws at us, throws her Anna and Sofia dolls across the room, then buries her purple and red face under her pillow to resist getting dressed.

"MOMMY!! Put your hair in.a.PONYTAIL!!!"

"MOMMY! Don't LOOK at me!!!!"

"MOMMY! I wanna wear my sparkly SHOES!!!" 

When both girls are both seated at the breakfast table, I could flip a coin to determine the outcome of the next fifteen minutes.

Heads: She happily eats her breakfast, smiling and laughing with Madelyn while mentioning to me "Mommy! It's Coronation Day!" No squabbles, no meltdowns at the front door, and we load up in the car on time.

Tails: I've made her the waffle she requested. (An Eggo waffle, peeps, ain't nobody got time for da waffle iron.) Suddenly, she snaps.

"Mommy! I said I wanted Cheerios!"

"Sweetie, you asked me to make you a waffle." (BREATHE, Mommy...we must be on time today!!)

"NOOOOOOOO! I don't want a waffle!" (CRASH goes the Ikea plate to the floor, waffle and syrup remnants splattering all over the kitchen.) 

Luckily, our dog Murphy loves waffles. And syrup.

Poor Murphy hides every time Olivia has a meltdown. He's terrified of the shrieks and cries, and is fearful of the foreign objects that sometimes fly through the air. I'm sure he's wondering how long the threes will last, too.

The afternoons are not void of a tantrum or three. In the car on the way home, the girls munch on Goldfish for a snack. One day last week, Olivia screamed at the top of her lungs for another snack, even though they know they only get one before dinner.

"Sorry, Liv, we only have Goldfish. We'll soon be home, and Mommy will make dinner."

Suddenly, a bedazzled jeweled shoe whizzed by my face, hitting the steering wheel, almost causing me to lose control of the car.

Mommy lost it. Mommy yelled. A LOT. Mommy screamed louder than Olivia's shrieks howling from the back seat. Madelyn covered her ears, as if to make earmuffs, whining, "Mommy, make Liv stop crying!!" 

The evenings are prime time for the Wrath of Olivia. She's tired and cranky. She's had too many graham crackers and string cheese to eat three bites of her dinner. (How and when in the hell did she learn to open the locked pantry and fridge?) She leaves the dinner table after a few minutes (because Daddy has sent her to Time Out for throwing food).

Time Outs are not an effective discipline tool for Olivia. She doesn't learn any lessons. She just howls louder in the corner, causing Murphy to scurry to his hiding place.

We take away dessert, toys, her favorite TV programs. Nothing works.

Another train derailment

At bedtime, she screams about putting on her jammies. She resists to sitting on the potty. (You didn't think she was potty trained yet, did you?! Oh no. Not even close. She's too busy having meltdowns to respond to our attempts.) She chucks her toothbrush in the trash. She hates the bedtime story her sister has chosen. She slams the bedroom door to make her point.

My blood boils. My husband looks like he's ready to punch the wall.

He turns to me and mutters "Can she be FOUR now, please?!"

We're exhausted. We're defeated. We're at a loss on how to handle this difficult phase.

And we're hoping it's only that. A phase.

We long for our sweet, cuddly Olivia to return.

On rare occasions, this girl will show her face at unforeseen moments.

Like the other night at bedtime, when she asked me to rock her in the glider.

We gently rocked in silence, and as I held her and stroked her blonde, fine hair, my mind found happy memories of me nursing and rocking her in this same spot. Special bonds forever cemented in my mind. Moments that occurred a little less than three short years ago.

I closed my eyes and smiled. She snuggled her head onto my chest, and I hugged her tighter, not wanting to let this moment slip away. I feared something going amiss, like my feet slipping off the ottoman, or not rubbing her back the right way.

I feared another train derailment.

Suddenly, she lifted her head off my chest, and my breathing stopped. My heart froze. No, please don't scream. Please don't cry. Please don't ruin this perfect moment, just you and me.

"Mommy, I love you."

My heart melted. I beamed and squeezed her tighter.

"I love you too, honey. Always."

It gave me a little ray of hope. Like maybe this phase won't last forever. Maybe parents CAN survive the magic number of three.

Happy Olivia! (Please note the twirled hair. This is what she does when she is tired, mad, or upset.)

Maybe we can have three kids someday and still maintain our sanity.

(No, I'm not pregnant, but we've always wanted to have three children. That's a blog post for another day.)

Maybe we can somehow make three be our family's magic number.

-Amber