A Day in the Life of a Three Year Old

Every day I am astounded by  the energy of my three year old son Jamie.  He leaps into each day with enviable joy and enthusiasm.  So for just a moment, I close my eyes to ponder what it would be like to spend a day in the life of a three year old…

My little 'ANGEL', Jamie xx

I wake up to sound of silence.  Stopping for a moment to listen, I realise the quietness is because not even at 4.50am are the birds awake.  Nevertheless, I have unstoppable energy coursing through me and I leap out of bed to greet the day.  I wake everyone in the house up with kisses, cuddles and misguided elbows in the face as I clamber on top of everyone in an attempt to get as physically close to them as I can.

I can’t stop for breakfast as there’s just too much to do.  I’m halfway through a book on shapes, my dolls all need warm coats on and I’m trying to perfect a block tower.  A couple of bites of toast should see me through til 7am when I will cry uncontrollably from hunger pains.

I’ve dressed for work in my usual corporate attire, but have accessorised with fairy wings and sword. 
“That will come in handy for my 9am meeting”, I say aloud.

My day in the office begins as normal, except I have the uncontrollable urge to get up and run every 10 minutes and push over anyone who is even the slightest bit shorter than me. 

My 10am coffee has been replaced by Milo and when I discover that there are no Teddy Bear biscuits in the cupboard I throw myself to the ground and scream for the next 5 minutes.  I conclude the spectacle with a fabulous Milo fountain across the staff kitchen and walk away for someone else to clean it up.

There’s a big meeting in the boardroom scheduled for 12.30pm, but I cancel so I can have a nap.  You won’t want to know me by 3pm if I don’t get at least a 30 minute sleep in!

I’ve woken up grumpy and really need a cuddle.  It’s at this moment my boss comes in and gives me some constructive criticism on a report I’ve just submitted.  I cry and kick him in the shins.   

At 2pm, my day gets worse when I have “an accident”.  I don’t know how it happened.  One minute I’m at the printer chatting to my friends and then the next thing I know I’ve wet my pants.  I shout, “I’VE DONE A WEE” and walk confidently back to my desk.  Thank goodness, I have found a spare tutu in my bag which will see me through the afternoon.

5pm is here in a flash and I’ve spent the afternoon colouring all the grids of my excel spreadsheet.  I commend myself on my fabulous artwork and head home.  The others are off to the pub for a wine, but I can’t go, Playschool’s on.

Dinner goes much the same as what breakfast did and I finish my meal with more of it on the floor than in my mouth. 

(Insert more random crying, yelling and misguided violence here)

I climb into bed exhausted at 7pm after catching up on the latest instalment from Spot the dog.  I’m stoked because I’ve managed to go to bed without brushing my teeth or having a bath!