Here's hoping 3 is not the new 2

My 2-year-old son, Braden, turns 3 on St. Patrick’s Day. I hope 3 is nothing like 2, because 2 is too much for someone like me, who is 33, and if 3 is like 2, then that’ll be way too much for someone that's 33.
I’m hoping 3 is better than 2, especially now that he’s potty-trained and fairly able to do many of the things young toddlers can’t, like getting dressed, brushing teeth and following directions.
But 2 has been bad, and I’m praying 3 isn’t the new 2, as I have been told, because Braden’s newfound ability to speak somewhat articulately (well at least the important words, like “please don’t,” “that’s naughty” and “I want to go to Chili’s mommy”) has come with a heavy price – the ability to argue.
I’m not one who should complain about someone that argues, since many would probably say that I’m not truly happy in a conversation unless I’m arguing about what the other person is saying.
When Brett Favre retired last week, everyone sang his praises like he was Jesus, Gandhi, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Michael Jordan, The Beatles and the guy cheering for Johnny to put Daniel-san in a “body bag” in “The Karate Kid” rolled into one. I told anyone that would listen that one championship in 17 seasons is not that impressive. Even Trent Dilfer has one championship. That’s right, Trent Dilfer.
Former co-workers of mine never took me seriously many times when I was being serious, because they thought I was trying to provoke an argument. “Brett Favre is going to rehab for Vicodin addiction,” I told them once. “Whatever, don’t be ridiculous,” they responded. Ten minutes later the entire state of Wisconsin was talking about it.
My wife doesn’t take me seriously, either. I can tell her a simple fact that she might not like, such as news about a good restaurant closing down, and if she questions it and I have any type of smile on my face, she won’t believe me. “Why are you smirking?” she’ll ask, assuming that I’m just trying to start an argument.
I’ll admit that once in awhile I’ll tell her little fibs just to keep her on her toes and to get a reaction. Most of the time these fibs involve something she likes, such as her favorite actor, Josh Brolin. “Josh Brolin was busted last night for driving 100 mph over the speed limit with cocaine all over his face,” I’ll lie to her.
“Whatever,” my wife will say. “He’s not that stupid.”
“Sure he is. Plus he’s a bad actor,” I will argue.
It annoys my wife, but it’s fun for me.
But now my 2-year-old soon to be 3 is paying me back for my arguing hobby.
For example, Braden noticed the sunny skies and melting snow this week. “It’s summertime,” he told me.
“No, it’s still winter, but it’ll be spring soon,” I responded.
“No, it’s summertime.”
The kid is either a big fan of Will Smith’s song “Summertime” or he’s picking an argument with the king of arguers. Unfortunately, the king can’t win when the kid won’t budge on his opinion. No matter what I told him, he was convinced it was summertime and I wasn’t going to change his mind.
In many ways, I’m very proud he’s inherited this trait, but it’s tiring to argue with him, especially when I don’t have the time or energy to argue.
Many say 30 is the new 20. I’m fine with that, although I’d rather 30 be 30; 20 was fine when I was younger, but I much prefer being older and wiser. But if 3 is the new 2, then I hope 33 is the new 23, because I’ll need the extra energy to argue with the new 2.