Three is a tough age in our house. We have learned to welcome four with extra gusto, because at some point after the fourth birthday, a flip is miraculously switched and the tyrant in question begins a slow transformation from object of fear and terror into a human being.
Sid turned four in October.
We are still waiting.
Some nights I have what can only be described as PTSD shakes, after a full afternoon of tirades, tantrums and trauma.
Currently, the tyrant is wearing ONE DRESS (which she will wear filthy and food-crusted, need be) and eating two food items that are not chocolate: string cheese and these mini pots of fromage frais:
This is what I get for years of unwavering Francophilia: a child who will only eat hard-to-find French cheese pots. (Years of unrelenting antisemitism I was willing to ignore. Ditto for overall snarkiness. This, however, may be too much even for me.)
I now own 60 of these mini pots because each time they come back into the store I buy them all, knowing that it could be months before I see them again and then she’s down to just string cheese.