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, 1/10th 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
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.
