The Sonia Show

Writer. Mocker. Beer drinker. Old movie watcher. Mother. Goober.



Yeah, so, having a 3-year-old means you always need to be prepared.

Even for a short car ride, I need a toy truck, a cup of water and a cracker. If for some reason I forget one of those things, that will be the time that he asks for one of those things. When I say I don’t have it, then there will be a tears, because he’s 3.

Three year olds are like bitchy teenagers or entitled, demanding celebrities with a pre-show rider that includes a dressing room filled with exactly 17 vanilla candles, a yellow bowl of blue M&Ms and four peacock feathers hanging from the ceiling or they will refuse to go on stage.

The other day I picked Calvin up from preschool. He climbed into his car seat, and he was happy as can be when I strapped him in. He had a toy truck and his graham cracker. I got into the front seat to head home, when he asked for “water, please.” He actually said please. True story.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I forgot your water. I’ll get you a cup of water as soon as we get home, I promise,” I said.

Then the tears started. Ugh.

“I understand you. I understand you want water,” I told him. “I’m sorry, honey. It will be just a few minutes.”

Then a toy truck hit me in the hand. I turned around to look at him.

“Sorry, truck,” he said.


Threenagers, am I right, folks?

Mighty, mighty good man David thinks by saying “Sorry, truck” Calvin is actually saying, “Sorry about the truck,” and he’s apologizing to me. I, however, am not so sure. I think he was saying sorry to the truck.

You will meet my demands or else.

You will meet my demands or else.




Author: The Sonia Show

I'm a writer/podcaster/mother/goober in San Francisco who likes to drink beer, shop, laugh and make other people laugh, watch old movies, feed my unhealthy obsession with pop culture, kick breast cancer's ass, go on adventures with my mighty, mighty good man David and my awesome autistic son, Calvin, wear orange and root for the San Francisco Giants, participate in general jackass-ery, talk about TV, eavesdrop on strangers' conversations, make nerdy “Star Wars” and “Simpsons” references, and post personal things about myself on the web for all to read, which makes me some sort of literary exhibitionist.

4 thoughts on “Threenager

  1. Yeah, I’d go with your assessment about the truck. My weasels are 17, 14 and 11, and Mrs Dim keeps trying to tell me I don’t need a loaded backpack when we go out for a stroll up the mountain. But you know what? I spent so long being the clueless Dad who never had the one thing we needed, that now I’m glad to be able to pull out a snack, or the first aid kit, or an umbrella or whatever. It’s nice to get it right, even if it is twelve years on……

  2. Right?? I don’t know why people are always talking about the terrible twos. It’s the THREES.

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