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It is getting way too serious up in here. I needed to lighten the depressing mood that my blog has been the past few months. I don’t know how or why you guys stuck with me through all this seriousness.

The other day I posted a story about how Jud was being disobedient and I threatened to take Monkey away. Then the comments section became this awesome wave of solidarity from moms who have just as awful three year olds as mine, apparently. I didn’t know that was even possible. I am quite certain some days that I have the closest thing to the spawn of satan himself that I have ever seen. Just keeping it real, folks.

So it was suggested we start a support group. Here it is. This is your chance, mamas. Let your hair down. Let your thoughts and feelings explode in the comments section. No judgment here. Let those who have gone before us and kind of almost survived offer hope. Please don’t tell us what to do. Just give us a drink and tell us we just may come out on the other side of this phase I have lovingly dubbed “the terrorist threes.” Because I don’t don’t know about you. But some days I am a quite certain my three year old is going to be in Juvi by the time he’s 10.

I’ll start us off.

Hi. My name is Terah and I’m the mom of a three year old. My kid throws tantrums that are the equivalent of world war 3. I’m quite certain. Kicking. Screaming at a decibel so loud it’s not even chartable. Throwing things. Hitting. Rinse. Repeat. Whew. I am exhausted just writing about it. Sometimes I lose my cool. I yell back. Because that is super mature and will solve everything. Obviously. Sometimes I just walk away and mentally take a drink.

Come on all you tee-totalers. If your kids has never made you want to take a drink, you obviously have not experienced the “terrorist threes.” Maybe not everyone experiences this phase. Maybe you produced the only perfect babes since Jesus. If this is you, you can borrow mine for a day. You’ll be begging for a glass of wine by the end. I promise. When he’s on his A-game, my kid can make every southern baptist preacher in the Bible Belt suddenly feel the urge to drop a few back. One day, he threw a tantrum for 2 hours. Straight. Nonstop. Two. Freaking. Hours.

Why don’t you spank him?, they say. Why don’t you ask him to use his words?, they say. Why don’t you teach him the appropriate response to anger?, they say. Why don’t you put him in time out?, they say. Why don’t you do this or that?, they say. And I say, why don’t you try telling a 3 year old who is screaming and kicking and throwing punches in a calm voice that it’s ok to be angry but I need you to use your words and tell mommy wheat you’re upset about. Yeah. You try that and then get back to me with a bottle of wine. Because you’ll need it after that goes down.

And then there are those amazingly sweet moments where you look at this child you were certain was extremely close to the spawn of satan yesterday. This kid who you were sure was going to drive you to drink every drop of liquor in Acadiana. And you feel so incredibly blessed. You feel so incredibly grateful that you get to be his mama. As he flashes his big beautiful blue eyes at you and tells you that you’re his best mommy ever. As he asks you to kiss his hurts. As he asks you to read him stories. As he gives you 1000 hugs and kisses. You suddenly don’t remember what you needed that drink for yesterday.

I dunno. Maybe it’s just me. Pull up a chair and raise your glasses to this crazy, beautiful, irritating, frustrating, glorious thing called motherhood.

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