Henry at 3 (and a half)

Maybe I shouldn't write about Henry.
3 is something I'd rather not remember (it makes me look at Grant with a small lump of fear in my throat).
I was warned.
I was told.
It doesn't matter.
Ready or not. 3 is HARD.
3 is reasoning arguing and foot stamping and mimicking and a roller coaster of emotions. (for both parties)
Its where the rubber meets the road for parenting and you pray that this "phase" is short lived.
Terrible 2s?
A cake walk.
At least for us this is the case.



You see, he wants to help.
Great! (except sometimes he can't, or it takes a lot longer and it's messier, or it simply requires patience, and then still more patience).

And then other times, he does NOT want to help.
Like when I would love for him to dress himself, or pick up toys.

In addition, three must mean new and stronger emotions and opinions. The wrong spoon or plate at a meal can ruin the whole event. And a bowl of ice cream can lead to a spontaneous and boisterous "I LOVE YOU, MOM!"

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Actually, one of the only silver linings about three has been some increased affection. Sometimes about six or seven times a day I get a hug, kiss, and "I love you." 

I store those up for the other days. When my well of patience has run dry.
And we inch along through the day.
Closer and closer to 4.
I have hope that 4 is better.

Truth be told, I don't care what the number is, so long as I can catch a glimpse of my agreeable and sweet little Henry again. And he sticks around for longer and longer stretches. 

Henry's first day of Purple Class