Threenager, noun, a
3-year-old child who embodies the characteristics of a teenager. (The Standard Myra
Dictionary)
She
popped her head up on her blue cot in the quiet hustle of nap-time,
where most children roll and whisper and hum, and a few dedicated
souls dream through the afternoon with loud snores.
Her
little head wouldn't lie down. “Miss Myra,” she whispered as I
sat with my coffee, “Miss Myra! I love you.”
Across
the room another small head came up, “Me too! Me too! I love you
too!”
It
was the first time since the beginning of school that I had heard
those precious words from these girls. My heart was filled, now a
mere seven weeks away from the end of the final semester. Spring was
coming quickly, and most of these children wouldn't be coming back.
Preschool was sending them on to Kindergarten or transferring them to
their sibling's school.
I
have never raised a three-year-old, but I have cared for them for
many years. And my heart has never felt the way it has when I'm
sitting among them. On the way home from school that day, resting my
tired feet on the floor of the car and driving mindlessly, I heard
the broadcasters banter their usual nonsense on the radio.
“So
there's a new term, apparently, called a threenager. It's when a
three-year-old grows a personality and throws tantrums like an
entitled teenager. What an age! This is a whole new ballgame compared
to the terrible twos. People are saying they've never seen anything
like it.”
“Obviously
you've never worked in a preschool.” I thought to myself.
As
strange as it may sound, I have fallen deeply in love with three-year-olds. That age has captivated me and made me see life, personality,
and priorities in an entirely new light. Three-year-olds posses a
heavenly peace and a tormenting passion. They fight with no holds
barred and love without question, all in one day, sometimes in one
breath.
This
week I sat on speckled blue carpet with a little girl in my arms,
rocking gently back and forth and trying to put her frantic body to
sleep. She was sobbing because her shoe had gotten mulch in it on the
playground. Three-year-olds have the ability to teeter between the
innocence of a baby and the maturity of a grade-schooler. She
sniffled into my shirt and I felt her little hand grasp my side as
her eyes drooped shut. In a few hours she would be whooping and
hollering and acting like she owned the world and convincing me that
she knew what the word lawnmower meant when she had, in fact, no clue
what it was.
But
threenager seems a bit extreme and a little too far-fetched for the
glorious little humans lined up in the hallway waiting for playtime
to begin. There is sometimes entitlement, but not in a way that they
have learned or practiced. Manipulation is a game that they are just
learning how to play and we gently get to start steering their
unsailed ships into selfless waters.
“Do
we treat our friends with kindness?”
“Yes.”
“So
what do we say when we haven’t used our hands for kindness?”
So
many times in a day I get to hear those precious, forgiving voices
tell eachother they're sorry. Truly sorry for their meanness, for
stealing the toy, for kicking the chair. The tantrums are short
lived, spark and fizz. They haven't learned how to manipulate
ceaselessly and I pray they never will.
They
are still innocent enough to need their shoes tied and have their
boo-boos kissed. The myth is that they are older than they are. Deep
within the anger, the craziness and the running bodies that sprint
down hallways they shouldn't sprint down, there are just tiny, new
hearts. Only three years on this earth and not quite sure what
everything is yet.
They're
learning how to write their letters, recognize their letters, and say
the whole alphabet in a consecutive row.
They're
learning how to open yogurt containers and throw things in a way that
they land on the playground where they intend them to land.
And
when things don't go right or they don't get their way, the beauty is
that they are still only three years old. The responses, patterns,
habits and opinions of an adult haven't been formed yet. Their
habits are just barely surfaced and I am among the privileged many who get
to channel these habits into beautiful, rewarding, caring lifestyles
that love as they have been loved and give with open hands. They are
not yet so far from learning what is good and what is dangerous.
There is no hopelessness in a preschool classroom, there is only open
roads of life.
I
dislike the term threenager. It condemns a child into growing up too
soon and growing up into a stereotype all at once. We are prematurely
convincing ourselves that this child will be defiant and preparing
ourselves for the worst instead of looking with forgiving eyes on
what is still being learned.
We
ask them to forgive, daily. And like them our Father has asked us to show
grace as if we were children ourselves. I am entering the Kingdom as
a woman and yet sometimes I envy the part of Heaven which looks down
on these beings and calls them the greatest among us. What a corner of Heaven their's will be.
They
are not threenagers. They are three year olds, and they are embarking
on the greatest journey of all, and that is the journey of life. Give
them grace.
