It's hard out there for an almost-3 year old

It seems that John just can't catch a break. Clearly, his life is rough -- at least to hear him tell it.

It started out innocently enough -- a trip to the post office that did not include any mail for him to put in the outgoing mailbox. Big mistake. Huge. And (note to self) totally preventable. The kindly postal worker took pity on him (or was it on me?) and gave him an empty priority mail envelope to put in the box. Smiles and cheers all around.

But it went downhill from there, and fast. As we were leaving the post office, a courteous man held open the door for us, and so began a litany of my transgressions, great and small:

"I wanted to open the door myself." (Too late.)
"I want my red cup" (As opposed to the blue cup in his hand.)
"I don't want to comb my hair! (Hmm, this happened at 9:30 a.m.)
"I want to watch Dragon Tales! (Pre-empted by aforementioned hair combing)
"I want a different song." (Providing no suggestions as to which one, though.)
"I don't want Betsy in her car seat." (Not really sure how to respond to that one.)
"I want to climb the brown stair rock." (At the sand park. From which we departed 5 hours earlier.)

For those of you who live near me -- let me put this in context by saying that this all transpired in the time it took to pull out of the post office by Scofield Farms and arrive at the light at Lamplight Village. For those of you who don't live near me -- well, that's about half a mile.

It continued at home, and during dinner at Rudy's, and then home again while getting ready for bed. And just when he finally ran out of semi-legitimate complaints, he noticed that I had made his bed, and decided to give it all he had:

"I don't like the blue sheets."

The silver lining, especially on a day like this, is knowing that by the time we get him into bed he will be our sweet boy again. No matter how upset he gets or how big the crocodile tears may be, he almost always manages to calm down and even cheer up in time for our nightly routine. We start with our books and songs and prayers, and then I get the endurance reward -- he scoots over so that I can lie next to him, we do our "hugs and kisses", and if he's feeling extra generous, he'll look at me and say "Let me look at you, Mama. Put your head on my pillow and I'll tuck you in and we can go to sleep."

The promise of those few sweet minutes each night is what gets me through the airing of the grievances each day. And I think he knows it.