Lessons in Tantrums

To say that The Child has a temper would be like qualifying the Civil War as a tiff.

The sheer magnitude of some things is not easily conveyed by a word.

Temper and tantrums are to be expected in toddlers – apparently it’s their way of asserting independence, of discovering and pushing boundaries, and of expressing emotions and feelings that they haven’t begun to be able to yet identify. (I say apparently because I did experience a motivational period of being a better educated, better informed parent and went to Barnes and Noble to tear through their Parenting and Behavioral Sciences sections, but I only made it as far as reading the summaries on the back covers. I believe that I had the best intentions to purchase the tools to follow through with my enlightment, but was distracted, and my enlightment purchases turned into a latte and a scone. Stupid in-store Starbucks.)

The Child is (in my unbiased opinion, of course) naturally beautiful, frighteningly smart, hysterically funny, and alarmingly charismatic. She is also uncompromisingly stubborn, willful, and mulish. After witnessing The Tantrum, family, friends, even strangers assure me that her… independence is promising, and that this too shall pass. But even as they try to convince me, I can see the dregs of horror still in their eyes from what they’ve just experienced, and the unmitigated gratitude that they don’t have to take her with them.

The main problem with The Child’s tantrums is that there is no segue, no warning sign. One moment she is joyous, and then the next, furious. She doesn’t need to hear “No, you can’t,” or “No, you need to”. She doesn’t even need to hear the letter “n” being formed by your tongue on the roof of your mouth. She sees the intention of admonition in your eyes, and at the inhalation of oxygen to even being the sentence, she throws herself down on the floor. In the space of a second, she seems to have been transformed into some sort of mythical beast, with multiple appendages and a harpy-like shriek of agony.

After several months of Tantruming, I have come to the following conclusions:

1) Although tantrums do happen at home, they will most likely happen in public. Generally at a time when you cannot easily remove yourself from the situation – in a toilet stall (added bonus for the acoustics of a public bathroom), in line at the grocery store with all of your purchases already on the conveyor belt, in the doctor’s waiting room (again, added bonus if the tantrum is paused for the expelling of some bodily fluid and then resumed).

2) It is best to have some sort of magazine, Sodoku puzzle, or Rubik’s cube with you at all times. Should Epic Tantruming commence, – the longest tantrum was clocked at 46 minutes, after which The Child proclaimed hoarsely “Mommy, I tired. No more mad.” – it is best to have entertainment. And something to hide behind.

3) Along with The Tantrum comes the Trio of Toddler Superpowers:

- Super Voice: loud and high enough to crack glass

- Bonelessness: The Child dissolves into a Little Person Puddle at the start of all tantrums…regardless of what body part you try to wrangle, they slip through your fingers like water. Do not attempt to pick up Puddle Person. You will only strain some muscle and cause yourself embarrassment.

- Super Human Strength and Speed of Movement: I have combined these because they work in tandem. One second, she is rolling around in the Dry Goods aisle, screaming at the top of her lungs, and then a split second later she is at the other end of the aisle, beating the shit out of a Keebler Cookie Elf cardboard cutout with a can of soup. (Uhh, please note – this only happened once. And I made her apologize to Poor Ernie. He may never have little elves, though.)

Again, after so many months, I have learned to identify and recognize The Stages of Public Tantrum Acceptance. **And I realize that both these stages, and my reactions to them, are situation unique. I’m sure that you handle these circumstances differently, which is fine. Unless your kid doesn’t have tantrums, then good! (And by good, I mean bite me). Or you don’t yet have children, in which case you totally should. (And by should, I mean… you can borrow mine. Like…now.)*** ANYWAY.

The Stages:

1) Shock - What the hell just happened? My child went from toddler to shrieking wildebeest in, like, 1/10^th of a second. I didn’t even get to assert authority, or use my mean voice, she just…collapsed.

2) Panic – Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop. Soembarrassedsoembarrassedsoembarrassed. Whymewhymewhyme. Whynotherfatherwhynotherfatherwhynotherfather?

3) Authority and Firmness – “That’s enough. Enough. I said…...excuse me. You on the floor, causing the chaos and rioting. That’s enough. What did I just say? Stop. Right now. I mean it.” (Please picture a stern face and firm voice.)

And yes, the ineffectiveness is being very accurately conveyed, which leads to…

4) Bribery – “If you calm down, you can have a cookie. A whole cookie. A couple of cookies. The bag of cookies. The cookies will be in the glovebox of a sedan. A convertible. A Porsche. On your way to an all-expense paid trip to Disneyworld. COME ON!”

5) Denial – You know what, that’s probably not even a tantrum. That’s probably not even my kid. Mine is simply yawning extensively and silently, and there’s probably just a couple of misplaced mating hyenas in back. (While you’re in denial, be sure to blame daycare and red dye 40. It is definitely not your fault.)

6) Acceptance – The most peaceful part of the process. Simply block off The Child as much as possible, utilize the aforementioned magazine or Rubik’s cube, and wait it out. Should fellow shoppers catch your eye sympathetically, smile and shrug. Should fellow shoppers make a snotty passing comment about brats and poor parenting, simply smile and remind them that at some point your child will stop tantruming, but they will never be able to reverse the effects of being beaten with a massive Ugly Stick.

Right now, tantrums take up about 30% of our time together. As much as they frustrate me and interrupt my day, they can’t hold a candle to the amazing other 70%. I know that this too shall pass. And to those of you who laugh knowingly and say that age three is worse than two…shut it.

Department Store Lessons

Holidays.
I love them.

I've always adored the celebrations - reasons for themed candy, family meals, big sales. Since having a little girl, I've found yet another new reason - themed outfits in various stages of floofiness. Halloween? Gonna be a bee, with irridescent wings, a black tulle skirt, and little yellow antennae. Christmas? Gonna have to be green velvet, with a little white satin collar, a big white satin sash, and an unfortunately large bow smashed onto the side of a sweet little head. Fourth of July? Red and white striped sailor shirt with little blue capris, and little white sandals. And now Easter. Some sort of pastel poof, with a veritable explosion of ruffles and ribbons, leaving an unsuspecting passerby with a vague impression of narrowly escaping being attacked by a cupcake.

It has to be the perfect dress. So I coralled The Child and drove to our nearest Kohl's. I am blessed/cursed with a child who is unfailingly enthusiastic about...anything. We walked in through the front door, and she stands just inside the door, and gasps "Mommy! It so boot-ful here! I love this store!" As the other shoppers stop to stare, I mutter something about us being more of Wal-Mart people, and steer The Child towards the children's section. As we begin the trek, she announces "I go by myself!" At least, that's what I think she said - I only caught the beginning of the pronouncement as she took off at a dead run. She is luckily blessed with some sort of otherwordly navigational system, allowing her to zoom around obstacles like displays, carts, and, you know, shopping people, all without breaking warp speed. I am not blessed with the same gifts (I blame the heels and flared slacks), so I was left to teeter/trot after her, muttering apologies, and trying to pick up the crap I knocked over while not losing sight of a couple of bobbing pigtails.

God bless whomever in Kohl's management decided to put their small toy section right next to the children's clothing section - it's like a brightly colored Fisher Price kid snare. When I finally caught up with her, she was sitting peacefully in the middle of the aisle, calmly thumbing through a Dr. Seuss book. Luckily, The Grandma ended up meeting us there, so I had an Assistant Wrangler while I immersed myself in all that is girly and right with the world. I collected armfuls of frothy dresses, weighing each option carefully, rating them based on a system I'm not sure even I was 100% understanding. When I finally narrowed it down to three, I brought them over to The Child - who stood considering stuffed animals with a sand bucket on her head - and asked her which pretty dress she would like. She looked at each of them carefully, seriously. My heart swelled with pride and the realization that I had given birth to a future holiday clothingist. She finally pointed to one and announced "I wear boots. And a bucket."

Hmm. Perhaps not.

I debated with The Grandmother instead (the relative NOT wearing digging accessories) and we agreed on one dress. As we made our way to the front, The Child paused in front of a trio of elongated, headless mannequins and stared.
"Mommy. What's dat?"
"Those are mannequins. They make the clothes look pretty so people buy them." I waited for my analytical, inquisitive child to take her gaze to the top, and tried to figure out a reasonable explanation for their missing heads.
"Mommy. They so big!"
"Yes. They are very tall."
"Mommy, they so boot-ful. Hello Tall Person!"
She carefully climbed on the short platform for a closer look. She gently ran her fingers down one shiny plastic leg, and then stopped abruptly at the large screw and rod coming out of one calf, securing it to the platform.
"MOMMY."
"Yes, honey, that's a pole to..."
"No Mommy. Look at her shoes!!! They are so pretty. They my fway-vwit. You go buy them!!!"
I glanced down at the absolutely breathtaking black patent leather open-toed stiletto pumps, and decided that The Force was indeed strong with this one. She can wear a bucket hat all she wants - my child has exquisite taste in footwear :).

We went to stand in the checkout line, and The Child caught a glance of her Easter dress. "Mommy! Is dat my dress? It soooooooo boot-ful! It my fway-vwit too!"

Yes, there will come a time when my little tomboy figures out that she doesn't have to wear the floofiness, and these silly, voluminous dresses will sit in the back of the closet. But for now, my child and I will love her holiday dresses.

At least, I thought as I threw the Easter dress down on the ground, sprinting after my child as she made a run for it and managed to get out the door, we will if I manage to catch her.

HEY PEEPS!

So.
Enough people have inquired, so I'm going to reserve a small corner of the worldwide web for MacKenzie. Or, at least, MacKenzie's popular antics. I will try to update every day, or every other day, or as often as MacKenzie does something odd, or funny, or beyond her years. Which should be about every day. I don't expect a lot of people to read here, but I am excited about sharing without worrying about being fettered by character limits!
Thank you for you being touched and amused (although no one seems to be as exhausted or exasperated) by my silly daughter's self.
Here's to the future!