Three was my favorite number growing up. I liked the shape of it. I just liked three. Maybe because it made me think of this.
Last month my toddler girl turned three. “If you thought two was bad, wait until three!” I have been warned by friends. And they’re right, the terrible twos have turned into a tantrum throwing three.
But three is still a magic number.
I remember things from when I was three years old. I can’t remember being a baby or toddler, and as the youngest child of four kids, my parents can’t remember any milestones from my babyhood. So I have nothing to go on from birth – end of two.
But I remember three.
As we took our now three-year-old trick or treating, she looked at her dad and said “You wait here daddy” and went up to the door by herself, leaving us on the sidewalk. I stood there with tears in my eyes because I remember doing the exact same thing on Halloween when I was three. “Daddy you wait here.”
Daddy you wait here because I am growing up and before you know it I’ll be gone.
Three is a magic number because I am seeing the ways that my daughter and I are the same and the ways that we are very, very different. I remember three. And I want my daughter to remember three too. I want her to remember happy times and a mom that didn’t yell all the time. I want her to remember that she wasn’t told “in a minute” every time she asked to play. I want her three to be a magic number.
So I try not to yell so much, I try to say “yes!” to playing and put off doing the dishes, or checking my email.
Because before you know it three will be a distant memory and she’ll be gone.