Sometimes three year olds are just so three. You know? It’s all fun and games when they go Limp Bizkit in the kitchen because you won’t give them some gummy bears… but church? Maybe I just trust the House of God will keep the three-demon out of them. Spoiler alert- it doesn’t.
Today I required a simple task from my resident 3 year old. Please hold my hand and walk to the car. Mommy has a casserole dish, two diaper bags, a baby, and yet another baby riding in the womb. So you? You walk. Nine out of 10 times this strategy works.
So, as I’m dragging my three year old through the parking lot, I begin to wonder. Should I be dragging you for this long? Will your shoulder dislocate? So I let go. Let him roll around on the wet pavement for a bit. Get nice and damp. Then up we go, walk two steps, drag four steps, let go. Roll, crawl retreat backwards, lose some forward progress. Rinse and repeat. Finally I herd him to grass. Call his dad. This does not work.
Dad “Owen, get up and walk to the car”
Owen “NO! I NOT!”
Look for friends. Friends are so far away.
Now I start to think that maybe I’ll just get hulk strength and be able to pick him up. Or maybe this extreme stress will cause me to develop superhuman powers and I’ll pick him up with my mind, just like Darth Vader. #telekinesis (The force was not with me today.)
But in the end a good Christian woman takes mercy on me and mine. I drag him to the car screaming and thank her as I lock him in the car while he screams “MY BOOTS! MY BOOTS”
And I realize no one who ever had a three year old would ever think twice about me dragging a limp toddler through a parking lot. But when it’s your limp toddler it seems really amplified. Like you gave birth to Chucky.
It could have been worse. He could have gotten naked. Or I could have audibly farted from over exertion. Am I riiiight?