52 Blessings – Three Year Olds

            I love three year olds.  They have imaginations and imaginary friends.  They can feed themselves, but want to be held.  They mimic your face when you tell them a story, and sing one line behind you in a song.  They still need a nap, but can feed the dog by themselves.    

            Yesterday Grace’s friends held a going away party for her.  Three year old Daisy twirled in a ballerina tutu and then changed into a Cinderella dress.  Daisy told Grace when it was time to open her presents and handed them to her in the order Daisy wanted them opened.  Three years olds are adaptable.  Three year olds have an opinion. 

            Austin was a cute, little, stocky, three-year-old boy, with fine blonde hair.  We used to babysit him.  Every day he wore levis with a belt and buckle, a western shirt, and cowboy boots.  He was generally adorable.  He also wanted to be included in everything.  One day, however, he wouldn’t stay out of trouble.  He jumped in the puddles in his good clothes, fought whoever came in his circumference, and was generally irritable.  The last naughty thing he did was throw rocks at the big kids.  I brought him inside, sat him down on the bench under the kitchen window, and told him he’d have to sit there until he figured out how to be nice. 

            I continued to peel the potatoes for supper while the rest of the kids played outside.  They were playing basketball and roller-blading and having a good time.  Austin sat and listened to them – sheer hell for a little boy that wants to be included in everything.  Pretty soon he mumbled, “Bad agency, bad consequences.  Good agency, good consequences.”   Then again, “Bad agency, bad consequences.  Good agency, good consequences.” 

            I was a more than a little surprised at his vocabulary . . . and even more so at his correct usage:

            “Bad agency, I got in the mud.  Bad agency I fight with Sarah.  Bad agency I throw rocks at Abe.  Bad agency, bad consequences.  Now I have to sit on the bench.  Bad agency, bad consequences.”

            Three year olds are teachable.  Three year olds are capable.

            This week my sister sent notice that a friend of ours little three year old boy was killed in a farm accident.  He looked like a little version of his dad.  His cute smile and crinkled nose confirmed all that three year olds are.  Three years olds are sweet.  Three year olds make a happy difference in the world. 

            I love three year olds.  It’s one of my favorite ages and all week long I have thought about three year olds and our kids when they were three:  Cali spanked her dolls, Abe wore his overalls backwards, Ty stuttered, and Ande believed she hatched under the house from a dinosaur egg. 

            I’m so glad we don’t skip from two to four.  Three year olds are a great blessing to the human race.