Nakezilla Returns

Our little Nate is going through a “phase.”  He has generally been known as the agreeable one.  The generous one.  The child quick to reason, to apologize, to accept “no” as an acceptable answer and to keep on going.  If we had one remotely “flexible” child, it was Nate.

But Nate seems to be going through some sort of three-and-a-half-year-old identity crisis.  He has most certainly received a jolt of testosterone to his system.  He feels significantly more angry about not getting his way.  He says more things through gritted teeth.  He now says things like, “I’m going to break you in half in four pieces.”  And he is refusing to say he’s sorry… ever.

He’s experimenting with his own power; his independence.  He tells me he’s going to make his own “sumbarine” and a jet.  When I ask him to tell me more he proclaims, “I build it. I dwive it.”

And he has to do everything himself.  He has to fasten his car seat straps.  He has to put on his bull shirt.  He needs to read a book that Jake is reading.  He has to open the front door when I get home from work.  If his brother beats him to it, he cries and hides and demands I go all the way back to work so he can open the door for me.  If I act like I’m going back to work, he dissolves into a puddle of tears.  He hides under tables and generally goes through insane and unpredictable mood swings.  There are still hopeful signs of the old Nate.  He greets me with “a beautiful rock” almost every day.  He still likes to ‘nuggle, and he’s happiest while inventing new dance moves in the living room.  But life is a constant roller coaster.

I was describing the new Nate to Grandma and Granddad and they captured it perfectly, “Uh oh.  Nakezilla.”

Yep, Nakezilla is back.

Last weekend we were driving in the car on our way out to dinner and Nate proclaims from the back seat, “I want Drama Juice.”

“What?  We’re going out to dinner.”

“I want Drama Juice!”

“Drama Juice?  What are you saying?”

“No, no.  Jama Juice.”

You’ve had enough Drama Juice my man.  Plen-ty.

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