My least favorite age

Bailey has a true love for rolly pollys. She worries about them constantly. You know, because of the snow. They might be cold, maybe she should just go and find them and bring them inside where it is warm. (She doesn't seem to get the correlation between her keeping them in her pockets and them meeting the dryer.)

She draws elaborate pictures for us, where we are always on vacation with huge smiles on our face.

Each of her animals, babies and Littlest Pet Shop Death Traps have a specific name. She remembers all of them. Always. She also reads too them. Not always the right words, but she reads too them. She also sings too them and rocks them too sleep...not the little pet death traps, but the animals and babies.

She tells the funniest jokes; she's always been the class clown type.

She is an absolute love. Big on hugs and kisses and I love you's. Everybody who meets her, just adores her. Her teachers, her friends, all of my friends, people in supermarkets.

But for freaking sakes, she may not live to see five years old. Four is my least favorite age. Give me a tantrumy two year old or a crazy three year old any day, but I'd like to skip four. Just pass it on by. Skip right over and move onto five. Maybe even go back to three, because she was a great three year old. Six more months of four and she might not make it.

I don't want to be this way. I want to enjoy the wonderful side of her personality. Unfortunately she reserves that for everyone but family. We get the sneaky, wicked, mean, nasty, attitudy, bratty, know it all, spaz. The girl who walks by her brother, kisses him on the head and then smacks him. She is sneaking stuff; candy and treats, shows on TV. I find her watching TV or playing Wii when she's been told to clean up her room or quietly read on her bed. When we ground her from the Wii, she hides the remotes (the freezer being her hiding place of choice), so none of the rest of us can play. She throws screaming fits any time she feels we are being unjust. Oy ve the girl has a set of lungs on her. I finally told her tonight that every time she says, I hate you mommy or daddy, she is getting one toy taken away. It's going into the garage in a bag, until she can learn to at least use less offensive words.

Basically I want to ship her back. Return the crazy four and get back my sweet kid. If she's still in there, which I get the sense she is. I've been here before. Five was not the saving grace I was hoping for with Morgan, but it was surely better than four.

Four is just evil. Four is scary. Four should be skipped. I recommend you all with three year olds or under, skip four, if you can figure out how. And then, let me in on the secret, because I have four years before I'll be here again.