Before I had my babies, I had such grandiose ideas about child-rearing. I didn’t understand why parents of young children were always complaining, tired and at their wits end. How could taking care of little kids be so difficult? Surely, they were doing something wrong. Funny how we  remember our old ideas and opinions and laugh at ourselves, much like I do today. Six years ago, my kids were just a dream, today I have a Cheerios-swigging audience as I write my blog and yup, I complain, am always tired and I would say I reached my wits end about a year ago.

My son recently entered the F*****g Fours. I love this term because it precisely explains what the fourth year of life is all about. Of course, my son is one of those kids who took great advantage of both the Terrible Twos AND the Horrible Threes. In fact, I think he wrote the book on the Terrible Twos and the Horrible Threes. He climbed furniture, fell off furniture, he threw tantrums both in private and public, he refused to eat, refused to sleep, wanted all the lights turned off, wanted all the lights turned on, threw toys at the television, threw socks and underwear into our chandelier, tried to escape the house through the front door and back door all the while screaming my favourite word “NO!”

So, when his fourth birthday was looming ahead in the horizon, I started wondering what he could possibly do that can upstage the last two years. A few weeks ago, he finally showed me what a 4 year-old can accomplish.

Well it turns out that four year-olds or rather my four year-old, are fantastic liars. My son, the love of my life, the most perfect creation in the world (please not the sarcasm), faked being sick in order to go to his cousin’s house. There I was, absolutely sure he was coming down with a fever. In the middle of rummaging through my medicine cabinet and searching for the thermometer, the Advil and the homeopathic stuff, I asked if he needed anything. He was almost pathetic-looking snuggled up under a blanket, clutching his little Woody doll and complaining of being tired and sick. He asked, very softly, almost mumbling, to go to his cousin’s house. I said yes we could go once he felt better. I had not even finished my sentence when he jumped up off the couch, practically bounded up the stairs to change into his jeans and pick up some spare toys for the supposed play-date.

I didn’t know if I should be relieved because he was fine or upset because he took me for a fool or happy that I had given birth to next Michael Douglas or Tom Hanks.

At the end of the day, I learned a valuable lesson. My kid knows how to push my buttons and how to manipulate my emotions. Now if only he could teach me his ways, I could rule the world.

Keeping it real,

Karin Demir