Helmet Cake and Things I've Learned: Baby Turns 3 Edition

Frozen is a fact of life.
Children act differently in public than in private. That cute/smart/amazing thing they said or did 15 seconds ago? Your relatives will NEVER SEE IT. Instead, when you FaceTime with them, they will see a body that turns into jelly and slides out of the frame and they will never believe that your child, who has also temporarily forgotten how to talk, just told you he will happily “gather up the silverware” or that taking the pedals off his bike was “quite easy.” GATHER UP. QUITE.
The terrible twos is only a thing at the end of the twos. Then it’s for real.
The exponential growth continues unabated. Was he ever a newborn? Could he ever not walk? Did he ever crawl? When did he not know how to count? When was he not able to articulate exactly what he wants and how much he wants it with words, tone of voice, and volume?
With children this age, cookies at the pretend market will cost you four hundred dollars, and the time is always forty.
Naked is the best.
You will sleep again. You will always be a little bit tired, but the crazy-tired thing will go away.
Unless they get sick in the middle of the night. (They only get sick in the middle of the night.)
People who love your kid are your best friends. Everyone else — what are they doing? Going out for meals at restaurants and shit? (I mean, not right now or for the foreseeable future.) Lounging around farmers markets? Going on road trips? Jogging? What the fuck are they doing? They are invisible to me.
It used to be that kids in sunglasses were the cutest thing ever. That’s still pretty cute. But now, your kid saying, “What the?” is the cutest thing ever.
You don’t love your kid any less as they get older. Maybe that happens when they get acne. I don’t know. I still keep expecting to get over it. I’ve always gotten over it before. But I have an endless well of love for this person. It doesn’t matter that he’s given me a black eye and a bloody nose and kicked me in the ovary so many times I’m sure I can’t have any more kids (his plan all along). All he has to do is say, “I’m sad,” and I will rip off my shirt to hold him to my naked breast and whisper my credit card number in his ear.
Your kid saying, “Thank you for my breakfast, Mama,” and “May I please have some more milk?” and “I’m gonna give you some space” as they close the bathroom door so you can pee in private will make your entire day.
A three-year-old has significantly more lung capacity than a two-year-old. Buy earplugs.
Watching a little boy you love pee makes you understand why fountains all over the world are carved with this image.
The first emotions kids have are “happy” and “sad.” Then “angry.” Then “disappointing,” “frustrating,” and “annoying.” I keep waiting for it to circle back around to something positive, but no.
Although you promised yourself and your son and God-whatever-that-is when he was born that every time he asked you to read him a book or play with him you would drop everything and do it, this will not be what happens.
Some things you will love doing with your kid: reading, painting, napping, swinging, being outside. Some things will be so boring you can’t even pretend to like them and you can’t even hang for two minutes: pretend play with stuffies, playing “family” where “you be the daddy and I be the baby” NO I CAN’T I HATE PRETEND PLAY I HATE ALL ARTIFICE INCLUDING COSTUME PARTIES CARTOONS COMIC BOOKS FANTASY AND PLAYS.
I’m not sure when you stop taking pictures of your child sleeping, but it’s not this year.
Your kid’s improvement in grammar has pros and cons. Pros: “You are the best mommy in the whole wide world.” Cons: “I don’t like the hair on your boobs.”
Eventually they start sleeping like a real person. Meaning you’ll go in to check on them, and instead of finding them in supta baddha konasana or with both feet against the wall, they’ll be tucked under a blanket with their head on a pillow. It will be weird.
Your son may yell in your face, “You have a bagina and you’re dirty!” and although the feminist in you will claw her way to the front, the mother of a nonsense-spewing child will get there first.
This is the age for malapropisms. Jenny, upon waking in the morning and cuddling a wet butt: “Oh, you pee-peed in the bed.” Gargantubaby: “Yeah, we gotta put bacon on it.” (Instead of baking soda.)
When kids this age (boys this age?) do pretend play by themselves, it always devolves into violence. GB in the back seat of the car to Tweety Bird: “I’m gonna pull your neck off if you talk to me. Pull your head off, too.” GB stalking the produce in the kitchen: “I’m coming for you, little apple.”
If you give them an inch when it comes to boob, they’ll take a mile. GB: Pulls my boob out of my shirt, pretends to nurse, and yells out happily, “Boob time!” (Jenny, later, to SJ: Did you teach him that phrase? SJ: No.)
Poop, and butts, are of supreme importance. (“Does Santa have a butt?” “POOP! POOP! POOP! POOP!”)
Your kid will sometimes allow you to listen to your music in the car now. But if he doesn’t like it, he will revert to his longstanding habit of crying and screaming through the entire song. So you might get to listen to a song you want, but he’ll make sure you won’t enjoy it.
Stuffed animals, and imaginary friends, have interesting names. Yellow dog pillow thing: Hadibooty. Imaginary friend: Guja.
Your home will always be a shithole.