Properly grown
I used to naively think that teenage is the beginning of all troubles with a kid. Now, I know better: by the time they’re 12, they’ve already been through several cycles of crisis / temporary resolution / more crisis / shorter resolution… What they call parenting.
Turns out 3 is one of those phases, at least for our girl. To be fair, a lot happened in a row for her:
She had to stop using a pacifier because it was starting to move her teeth forward, which you don’t want unless you’re into going to the orthodontist’s.
She got a bigger bed because the older one was simply too small at this point, especially if you put all the teddies she absolutely needed to sleep with in there;
We initiated the potty training process, which she first looked excited about, until she realized diapers were more practical.
A few nights ago, as we were way past her bedtime and she had (supposedly) gone to sleep, I heard footsteps from the living room:
— Dad?
— Yeah?
— The bed is not properly…
— Properly what?
— The bed is not properly!
She already sounded frustrated, which was not a good sign. I stood up from the couch and popped my head in her room:
— What do you mean, your bed is not properly?
— My bed is not pro—per—ly!
— Sophia, that doesn’t make any sense…
— Yes it does!
— Huh… Do you have a blog?
— No…
— Trust me then, it doesn’t make any sense.
— But my bed is not properly!
— Properly what? This needs a qualifier, honey…
— What?!
— Never mind…
I walked up to her bed: she’d moved around so much that the sheets had gone out on one end.
— Are you talking about the sheets?
— Yes!
— Well, you could have said so…
— I said the bed was not properly!
— You should have said, the bed is not properly made…
— You’re the maid!
I fear this is only the beginning.