I love three year olds. Their conversations, exuberance, energy, and growing minds. But the drama. Oh the drama.
This morning Noah had already flipped out once because I had refused to accompany him to the bathroom (imagine a screaming pant-less boy). I was busy with Max and he really can handle it himself. Then he was throwing a fit about every color combination of cup, lid, and straw that I was assembling for his milk. At some point I had enough, chose for him and stormed off. He trailed me and in his most heart-broken devasted tone and with huge tears in his eyes sobbed to me, "Mommy, my cup is not beautiful!"
I mean really, can you do anything at that point but laugh?
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