At least once a day The Rock Star picks me a flower or a weed or a blade of grass, presents it to me, smiles, and says, "You look pretty."
It's incredibly charming and it almost makes up for the fact that he pitched a hurricane of a fit in the middle of Kohl's today.
Why didn't anyone warn me about four?
I had a head's up about the terrible twos. I'd even heard that some kids bypass the terrible twos and beat their parents up during the thunderous threes. But these, these ferocious fours. Oh. My. Stars.
The talking to me like he's a fourteen-year-old girl with a raging case of PMS.
The acting like he's high and mighty and I'm dumber than dirt one second and then throwing himself on the couch in an angry rage the next.
Is there something I can give him for this? Something like Midol, maybe. Because it really seems like he's processing life the way teenage girls handle things once a month.
Sometimes he's so adorably sweet, so funny, so very well behaved.
Sometimes he's pulling the diaper bag off my shoulder with incredible strength in the middle of Kohl's as he screams bloody murder and people glance in our direction just to be sure that a kidnapping isn't taking place. And I wonder if I gave birth to two babies and my sweet little boy sometimes takes turns with his evil twin. Except I was there. Only one baby came out. Which means that this is all The Rock Star right here.
All the sweet, sugary, flower delivering little man.
All the coping skills of a pubescent girl.
All 100% The Rock Star.
Psalm 127:3 "Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him"