While two is not so terrible, five is simply miserable. To be specific, five years, six months and one day. It's a real pisser.
When Q. was born, Five (then three!) was a good sport until the three-month-mark when his green monster of jealousy reared its ferocious head. When I look back at all of our photos during that one-month period, he has a look of anger. He was mad at the world and he acted out in every single way possible. Severe separation anxiety, complete defiance, name-calling. No matter how much time we spent with him, he continued in this downward spiral of envy. He was ruthless and it was one of the most emotionally draining and painful experiences in my parenting life. It ended one evening when my husband and I, fed up with his behavior, wiped the house clean of every single book, toy and activity that he could possibly enjoy. In one fell swoop, they all went into the attic as he cried bitter, hard, hot tears while he watched us. We made him earn each item back every single day based on his behavior. It worked, and the end result was that he was soon his old self because he was focused on something besides his little brother.
I tell this story because here I am, two years later, battling that green monster again. Only it's combined with all the little nuances that come with the age of five (plus six months and one day): fearlessness, assertions of independence, stronger defiance, a blatant loss of "listening ears" and flat-out pissiness. And a sweep of his room won't work this time because toys and "things" just don't matter as much. He's completely consumed with competition. He has to have what his little brother has in his hands. The same snack. The same bag the snack is in. The same amount. The same toy. Or bigger. And better. The whining. The fighting. The brotherly battles.
It, of course, all coincides with Q. becoming more independent and asserting himself. His personality is as charming as big brother. And Five is not hip to sharing the limelight. He wants to be the boss of everyone. There's more to it of course. He just graduated from preschool. He's getting older, and on and on.
Here's the thing. Five is a sweet little guy. His heart is so big, so open, so full of unending love for all of us. He's a mature five, with complex thoughts and an even more complex vocabulary. He's been reading and comprehending books at the third-grade level for months. His curiosity is insatiable. And sometimes all of this makes me forget that he is just five. I remind myself of this fact when I hits me that I'm expecting too much. He's five.
Even so, it still feels like Groundhog Day. From the moment I wake up until the moment he goes to bed, the days of late are filled with constant discipline. He's not happy, and I'm sad and completely frustrated- -- not to mention being tired of hearing my own voice and being upset. There's this little cloud of five over our heads. I know it will lift soon, but not without some hard work ahead. And dammit, I want my happy house back. I want my Sweet Pea back.
Friends told me five was a tough age. His preschool teachers told me five would be a challenge. But again, I'm that rookie parent.
I just wish I didn't have to be reminded so often.
