Sassy Meatball

It’s funny that no matter how many kids you have or how close together they are, you forget certain things about certain ages.

When I was a new mom with my first punkinangel, I was constantly asking my mom when babies were supposed to do things. Crawl, talk, eat with a spoon, walk, etc.

Her answer was nearly always the same: “I don’t remember.”

What do you mean you don’t remember?!” I’d think, as I carefully glued the 524th identical picture of my firstborn taking a bath into his overflowing baby book. “I’ll always remember.”

Spoiler: I already don’t. I didn’t have to wait long for that inflated confidence to be laughable.

For a while now, our resident 2 year old has excelled at being a toddler. He is fantastic at being 2. [as chronicled here and here, and here.]

But now he’s nearing 3.

And I totally didn’t remember that sometimes 3 year olds are worse than 2 year olds, in the best, sassiest kind of way.

“Threenager” is a term for a reason.


For one, he says, “actually” a lot. As in, “Ashually, mama, I’m not going to pick dat up.”

Also, the “…but why?” As in,

“Let’s not pour that orange juice on your brother’s head.” or “Please don’t try to change your own diaper”

3 year olds, man. They’re…passionate.

How. Ever.

They are also hilarious.

The way they describe the world around them is gold.

Like last week when Hutt felt a gust of wind, clutched his lovey to his chest, and cried, “the ‘ky is trying to take Raff!”

Or when he ran into my bathroom with a panicked look on his face and yelled,

*hiccups loudly*

Or how excited he gets every time we drive at night because, “Da moon is following us home, Mama!!!”

Or any time it’s bright enough to make him squint and he yells, “ISS TOO WINKY OUT HERE.”

Or when this happens every single time:

him: I want a snack.
me: Can you ask nicely?
him: Nicely. Get me a snack.

The dude excelled at being 2.

My expectations are even higher for 3.

Bring it on, you deliciously sassy meatball, you.


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