The three-year-old, here's her deal. She's a three-year-old.
That's really it.
She's three years old.
The other day I got in a fight with her. Whose fault is that?
I'm 41, and she's three. It's always your fault with a three-year-old, always, because they are just what they are. They can't help it. Just tape the windows. It's a fucking hurricane.
Just wait.
Anytime you're like this with a three-year-old, ("don't you understand?")-- you're an idiot. That's you being an idiot. "no, I don't, dad. I haven't developed enough." But it was partly her fault, 'cause she wore me down.
Let me tell you what happened.
It was this horrible, horrible day.
It started the night before, 'cause she woke me up all night. She just woke me up every fucking just ten minutes. She just woke me up-- just "dad"--with nothing.
That's the worst part.
"oh, fuck you! You got nothing!"
so now it's the next morning. I'm making breakfast, and I'm gone. I'm insane. I drank too much coffee to overcompensate. I keep having these moments and there's nothing there. Just nothing. Just, "huh? ah."
I'm making french toast.
She's over there sitting in her little chair, just fucking anger. Just pure--she's a little ball of anger. And she's like, "Make me some French Toast!". I'm like, "yeah, that's what I'm making, honey. I'm making french toast. I'll bring it over."
"yes, of course I'll give you syrup. I always do."
"i'm happy to cut it for you."
"You're not asking nicely, but it's okay. I'll cut it for you, baby."
then she's looking at her plate, .. [breathing deeply] 'Cause she needs to be--want something. You know, there's nothing logical for her to want, so her brain has to go somewhere crazy.
So she's looking at her plate. She goes, "i don't know which piece to eat". And I'm still not engaging. I'm like, "oh, I know, honey, that's hard.
That's really hard.
I'll just make a list of pros and cons for every piece, and I'll help you out later." I look at her, and she's walking towards me now with the plate just vertical with syrup fucking going on the floor. And she's like, "help me!" and I'm standing there, looking at her, and I love her, and I'm proud of her in a way, 'cause I know she'll never want for anything.
She'll beat the shit out of people.
She'll kill people for meat after the apocalypse.
She'll be one of those. And then later I'm trying to get them dressed for school. And now the clock's ticking, and I'm like, "ugh! And I'm trying to put a sweater on her, and it's impossible. The sweater has buttons that just don't exist. And I'm fucking with my fat fingers, and they're full of sweat.
And I have just tears going down my cheeks, crazy tears. I'm not crying. I'm like smiling with tears, copious--"i can't button the sweater. I can't button the sweater" and she's going like this.
So I give her a fig newton just to immobilize her, just to stop it, 'cause she loves fig newtons. I go, "here, honey, have a fig newton". She goes, "they're not called fig newtons. They're called PIG newtons!"
and I go, "no, they're not. "
and right away in my head, I'm like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"
Why?
What is to be gained?
What do you care?
Just, 'yeah, pig newtons.
Fine, go ahead.
Good luck to you.
Go through life.
See what kind of job you can hold down with shit like that clanging around in your head.
I don't care.
but for some reason, I engaged.
"No, honey, they're called FIG Newtons" she goes, "no, you don't know. You don't know!"
and I just--i feel this rage building inside. Just--because it's not that she's wrong. She's three. She's entitled to be wrong. But it's the fucking arrogance of this kid. No humility. No decent sense of self-doubt.
She's not going like, "dad, I think those are pig newtons. Are you sure that you have that right?" she's not saying that. She's not going like, "dad, I'm pretty sure those are pig newtons," which would be a little cunty, but acceptable. I could deal with that.
She's giving me nothing.
"No, you don't know."
"Those are pig--"
I'm like, "really? I don't know? I don't know?"
"Dude, I'm not even using my memory right now. Okay, I'm reading the fucking box that the shit came out of. It says it! Where are you getting your information? How do you fuck with me on this? You're three, and I'm 41. What are the odds that you're right and I'm wrong? What are the sheer odds of that? And take a bite of the cookie. Does it taste like a pork cookie, motherfucker?"
"I don't think so."
"Why would they call it a pig newton? What's--oh, it tastes like figs. Fucking interesting, isn't that? "
I didn't say a word of that, obviously.
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--Louis CK, Hilarious (and perfectly explains the day to day battles of being a father to a 4 year old and the mentality of some new stoppers that visit here).
