Three year olds, man. This is THE season. It is the season of pretend and "Doktor Ah-wi-ver" (Doctor Oliver) and "Ast-wo-naught Ah-wi-ver"(Astronaut Oliver) and "Baby Ah-wi-ver." It is the season of potty humor and poop jokes. It is the season of shoes on the wrong feet, and undies on his head, and Daddy-shirts at bedtime. It is the season of planting himself near construction sites and watching diggers and dumpers and giving the workers thumbs up. It is the season of snuggles on the couch, and hiding 'awww to-gever" (all together) under the covers, and reading "Go, Dog. Go!" over and over and over.

It is the season of questions. "What's her middle name?", "What car does he dribe?", "Are we sitting at da table?", "Can I? Can I? Can I?", "What day is it?", "Are my shoes on de white (right) feet?", "Are we in da car?". They come at you so fast and so constantly. So many questions. My eardrums ache at the end of some days, and other days my soul is laughing at all the absurd questions I have answered. "Can our house wear a diaper?!", "Can I take a tubby on the roof?!", "I don't mow (know) Mommy, why DID I touch my poo poo?"

It is the season of "No! I don't want to!!!! I don't wike to!!!" It is the season of a little bum on a little time out stool. So. Many. Times. Every. Single. Day. It's the season of a red face and hot tears and a vein in his neck that bulges when he doesn't get his way. It is the season of Star Wars stickers on a chart on the fridge and a music video when enough stickers are earned.

But that bulging vein.

We see it so often.

So much so that now we have a special time every day where we sit down and simply practice obeying with a happy heart. Because man, we need to work on this, on purpose. The same way we work on counting, and coloring, and cutting... we are working on obeying.

But here's the thing sweet boy. It's not you versus me. It is not a battle, with winners and losers. I'm not trying to outsmart you, or out-wit you, or beat you at your own game. I'm not working on my angle or strategizing against an opponent. I'm not standing on one team, and watching you across the field on the other team.

I know it probably doesn't feels like it. When your face is red, and your heart is racing and that little vein in your neck is bulging.

But, buddy, we are standing on the same side of the field. We are on the same team. We are fighting together, not against each other.

I know it's too much to ask of a little guy... to remember all that in the middle of a crisis. But that's ok, because I can remember it for the both of us. When we are in the thick of it together, this week and this year and ten years from now.

We are on the same team.

You. And I. And Daddy.

We are on the same team.

Awww To-gever.

Despite what your feelings tell you. Despite what your racing heart tells you.

Despite what my feelings tell me. Despite what my racing heart tells me.

We are in this all together.

Oh buddy, we are working with you for your good. For your future. For your character. We love you and we are in this together. You carry our heart inside your skin. How could we ever be on opposing teams? We are for you. We are so incredibly and deeply and profoundly for you.

And oh the grace we pray over your heart and mind for the days we haven't postured ourselves alongside you. When we approach you with the heart of an opponent instead of a parent.

We love you.

We are for you.

We are on the same team.