Hands are not for hitting

So, we've been having a bit of an issue around here lately. Well, a big issue, really. It seems as though Camryn has discovered a new way of taking out her "I'm 3 1/2" frustrations. She does it by hitting. And she knows that it drives me crazy.

By now it's no secret that Camryn's a bit of a spitfire. Perhaps she should have been born a redhead, because she can be sweet as pie one moment, and the next, something will set her off, and WATCH OUT! I guess you could say she has a "passionate" personality. She's not ho-hum about many things. She's got her opinions, she knows them, and she sticks with them. She either likes things or she doesn't.

The poor thing. Much of it is not her fault, after all. I mean, the cards were stacked against her from birth. Her very genetic code is an explosion waiting to happen. She is very much like me in that she is total control freak. However, she's got a bit of her daddy running through her veins too. Although it takes a lot to get him riled up, when he finally does, he blows like a cannon. So it seems as though Camryn's got both my high strung/low tolerance personality and Daddy's explosive reflex. Not always a good combo.

So we've been talking a lot about making good choices, about being kind to others, and we've been choosing our bedtime stories with purpose. Hands Are Not for Hitting by Martine Agassi has been #1 on the list for awhile now.

I have several friends who swear that 3 1/2 is one of the most challenging ages we as parents must survive, and that it's much worse than the "terrible twos." I hope they're right. I hope this is just a phase that we will work through. That four will truly be as blissful as they say it will. And that if I can survive 3 1/2, then I can survive 13, because that's the age that really scares me.