By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

A 3-year-old lives in my house. 

He loves “Daniel Tiger” and “Bluey” and has impressive abilities when it comes to maneuvering his black, battery-powered Jeep around our yard. He enjoys truck books and dried mango slices, and also, just last week, he slammed his door so hard in my face that the door frame came loose from the trim. He is a delightful kid. Except when he’s not.

Consider this recent episode: A few weeks ago, one of my daughters asked me to draw chalk pictures on the driveway with her. I didn’t really want to. It was cold enough out that I made sure my ankles were covered before I went outside with the kids, and the cold cement wasn’t my first choice for seating.

But, I know my days of being asked to draw with chalk are limited, so I sat down on the hard ground, grabbed a piece of red chalk, and started to draw a rainbow. 

This is when the 3-year-old entered the story. A few colors into my rainbow, he sat down across from me, picked up a white piece of chalk, and leaned forward to scribble all over my picture. I put my hand up to stop him and asked him to draw his own picture somewhere else. I pointed to the driveway, wide open and full of space. “Stay next to me,” I told him. “But please don’t ruin what I’m trying to make.”

He didn’t like that.

He held the chalk up like he was going to throw it at my face. When I raised my hand to deflect it, he turned and threw it the other way. The chalk hit my daughter square in the forehead, landed on the driveway, and broke in half. My daughter began to cry instantly, and the quality time I had hoped to spend with one of my middle kids was soured.

In a related scene, a few evenings later, all my kids were crabby. They thought their cousins were coming over and then their cousins didn’t come over, and they weren’t being quiet about their disappointment which really sounded more like feral grief.

Determined not to call the day a wash, I convinced two of my kids to play Uno with me, and this shifted their moods. I dealt the cards, and the 3-year-old entered from stage left. He had changed his attitude and, with a pleasant smile, asked to play. 

Just kidding. 

He was, of course, still screaming, and, upon seeing the stack of cards, had a new outlet for his rage. We locked eyes. He swiped his hand toward the cards and sent our draw pile all over the kitchen table. I picked him up, so he could take a break in his bedroom and on our way, I looked at my daughter, whose eyes were now filled with tears. We both knew the game was effectively over until the 3-year-old could finally calm his body down.

Scenes like this play out in my house on a daily basis because 3-year-olds are tiny pressure cookers—ready to loudly let off steam at any moment, without any warning, and with an intensity impossible to match. “He’s deep in the upside down,” I will text my husband, Jake, during the day to which he often simply replies, “The worst.”

I wish I could say I respond to these recurrent meltdowns with the grace and wisdom of a mom who is on her fourth 3-year-old, but the truth is, this last time around feels just as terrible—if not worse—than the first because I’m so much more aware each time what he is pulling me away from.

I am well aware that the days of drawing on the driveway with sidewalk chalk and playing Uno at the table are dwindling. My oldest daughter no longer reads picture books with us before bed. Instead, while we read Knuffle Bunny or her old favorite, The Book with No Pictures, she curls up with a chapter book in the oversized armchair across the room. It just happened. One day, she was the fifth on the couch, and the next day, she wasn’t.

I see the end of these cozy cuddles on the couch and the days when I am the social center for my kids. I hear the refrain of all those who have gone before me—those who remind me to enjoy these days because they go so fast, and here’s the thing: I’m trying to.

I’m trying to say yes—to be present even when it’s cold or when I’m tired or when the game involves some kind of make believe (my actual least favorite thing to play). I’m trying to make sure these days don’t slip through my fingertips. It’s just that, it seems as though every time I say yes, the 3-year-old has a different, more volatile plan for my time. 

“I can’t do anything with the kids,” I said to Jake recently. “Every time I sit down to play with them or draw with them, a tantrum pulls me away. I can’t ever be fully present.”

“You are still present,” he replied. “Every time you deal with a meltdown, you teach the kids how to handle conflict and respond to less than ideal circumstances. They watch you, and that matters. You’re still present. Just in a different way.” 

He’s right (he usually is), and his words hit a reset button in my mind. You’re still present. Just in a different way.

Tomorrow is a new day. The 3-year-old will be there with his strong opinions and unpredictable reactions. He might call me a “dumb lady” a time or two and something may get broken or bent or severed (as was the unfortunate case for the ceramic dragon that lives in my boys’ room). At some point, he, in all his threeness, will need redirection at the expense of someone else’s time.

In all of this, I will try to stay present for our kids. I will try to see each inconvenient break in the day as an opportunity to model what grace and patience and gentleness can look like in real time. 

And then maybe I’ll save the sidewalk chalk until nap time or keep the big kids up late for a game of Uno. Jake’s right that I can be present in all situations, but also? Sometimes staying present looks like playing games when the three-year-old is asleep. (Just don’t tell him I said that.)

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.