Cecily's Sword

Who said it was 2?
Terrible Two has never been To-The-Pain for me.  It has always been 3.
Right smack dab in the middle of Cecily's current psyche.

She speaketh like the piercings of a sword with disturbing alacrity.  All smiles, or pursed lips that seem to be holding at bay her desire to laugh in the face of all my motherly frustration.  Frustration might be a gentle word for it . . . perhaps motherly rage is more accurate.

With that piercing sword she strikes ruthlessly To-The-Pain, but never, sparingly, To-The-Death.
I'll explain, and in true Westley-an (Princess Bride) fashion "I'll use small words so you'll be sure to understand," but I'll stop short of calling you a warthog-faced-bafoon.  A friendly gesture.  I'm not three anymore.  Not like some people I know.

"You're a mean mama." She takes a foot.

"I don't like your face." A hand.

"You have a big, chubby tummy, Mommy."  Both eyes and a nose.

"Go away from me."  But not the ears.

The ears I get to keep so I can hear, with perfect clarity, every innocent slur Cecily and the next three-year-old has to wound me with.  Leaving me to "wallow in freakish misery forever."

Or not quite forever.  There are glimpses of light.  Because three eventually turns into four, turns into five . . .and occasionally even Cecily tests the waters of sweetness in which she used to swim freely.

Cecily making her way down our hallway that is so long we can run a  hundred yard dash from one end to the other.  She is wearing my leather dress boots.  The boots come to my knee.  The boots come to her hips, only because her body won't let them go any higher.  Her hundred yard dash form my room to the kitchen is an awkward, lurching affair that she seems pleased with.

Cecily opens the refrigerator and while browsing for something good to eat she looks at me and gesturing towards the boots says "Look Mom, I'm made of you."

Yes.  By the luck of the draw.
And even, sometimes, by choice.