Tantrum Lessons

My mother in law (no, this isn’t going to be one of those posts all you poor dears with dreadful mother in laws) is generous to a fault. I think it stems from her austere childhood, but we rarely leave her home without her thrusting some sort of gift at us. I do my best not to take them all, but darn it, she gives us good stuff! Yesterday, we went over to move some stuff around in her barn. Miraculously, she “found” a fabulous little lego table (ya, more likely bought at a tag sale and stashed away in the barn, awaiting an opportunity to further spoil us) and offered it to our daughter. To maximize the potential for us to accept said gift, she wisely chose a Lego-related item, which dad will not only approve of, but want to play with himself. She was also wily in her decision to offer it to our girl right in front of everyone. Thus ensuring that the child will fall madly in love with it, raising the odds daddy won’t be able to resist.

But it was so very hot out. 91 degrees in the shade.

Daddy and daughter share more than an oddly intense love of building blocks. Both have short fuses that nearly dissapear in hot weather. They meltdown faster than frosty in a microwave. She began to simmer when daddy made polite “oh mom, you do too much” noises (I knew they were empty, given the item, but a three year old lacks the ability to detect such subtly of communication). Yet things came to a boil when Daddy accepted, and asked our girl to thank grandma and grandpa.

Now I wasn’t standing all that nearby when the gift was proffered, so maybe things went down the way Grandma said (my daughter does say please and thank you more often than not), but it is equally possible that Grandma just wanted our daughter to have the gift and was covering her wee toddler ass… but when daddy asked our girl to say thank you for the second time, a gauntlet was thrown and so did our wee angel throw herself down on the lawn in a fit of tragic sorrow at the seemingly inevitable loss of this precious object.

Now we hold tough on tantrums. Tantrums = no joy. She throws one and we throw down. But from my vantage point, it all seemed so exaggerated and accelerated. How did we go from present to pandemonium in 10 seconds flat? I could hear father in law grumbling to his wife “stay out of it” as she plead our daughter’s case “but she did say thank you” while dad’s insistence that he hear her say it was nearly drowned out by the sound of the steam emitting from his ears. And I admit it, I sort of gave in to her by engaging her at all during a fit. I whispered in her ear, “darling, you are a good girl. I know you are grateful and will thank your grandma. the toy is yours, please don’t worry about it anymore. Just come with me to look at grandma’s flowers, please?”

And so she rose, dejected. A sad and broken child; cheeks reddened from despair and the blistering heat. We marveled together at grandma’s lovely flower bed, peopled by mischievous gnomes. Grandma joined us for a giggle. Then grandpa and dad made their way over and my dear girl said, “grandma, may I please have the lego table?” To which she said, “of course, honey.” “Thank you, Grandma,” she said. Thank you.

Tantrums for an Audience

Anyone with a toddler knows that the smallest change to routine can spell disater for the tiny little obsessive compulsives.  I just hosted a family reunion of sorts where five of my relatives stayed in my home for roughly ten days.  While the entire visit went very well, my toddler did manage to horify and embarrass me (as toddlers often will).  While I was thrilled with how well my children were able to share toys with their cousin, I was horrified at the bad attitudes they displayed when they didn’t get their way. 

When we decided to go on a local sight seeing trip, my three year old demanded to go back home because he wanted to play instead.  When we did not comply with his wishes, he cried and threw a fit.  I was absolutley mortified.  I could not believe that he would act that way in front of everyone.   While  this was by no means his first tantrum, I was left feeling as if I had failed as a mother.  I have never given in to a tantrum or toddler whim, so when will he learn that tantrums don’t bring results, only ire?  How will I ever break the tantrum?  I have ignored, yelled,  and punished, but I can’t seem to crack the  bad behavior.  Bad behavior that is by the way much more damning when witnessed by all of your relatives, who by the way have the most well behaved child on the planet. 

The Spirit Wars

There’s a fierce battle of the wills unfolding in our house. Tempers run hot and tears run plentifully. On one side of the battle field stands daddy, strong and proud. Alpha male at its finest, accustomed to winning his battles through superior fire power (wits, skill, brute force). Yet he may have met his match in a 35lb 3-year-old girl. She is wily, she is nimble, and above all, she holds the force of conviction usually reserved for the irrational, faith-based zealot. We call this last trait: Toddler Stubbornness.

This morning’s battle was waged in the potty. My husband (rightly) feels that bathrooms are not the cleanest rooms in the home and that food and toys are best kept out. However, when the urge struck our girl this fine morning, she had her Julius the monkey / Lego keychain in hand and was loathe to release it. As a result, she couldn’t navigate her way onto the toilet and tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. She barked out a command to the nearest available minion, “Daddy, help me!” Ah, a chink in her armor, though, as daddy spied the offending toy and pointed out that she could get onto the toilet if it weren’t in her hand. Oh the war cry that issued forth from our spawn! But by then, the battle was engaged. Daddy snatched the toy, reminded her they didn’t belong in the bathroom, plunked her on the potty and marched out.

The minute she dismounted the throne, the queen demanded her toy. “Well,” taunted daddy, “you’d have it if you listened to me in the first place.” Amidst a flurry of weeping and limbs, the vanquished queen demanded the return of her toy. Her challenger, however, has laid down rules of engagement that all must follow, demands must be phrased in polite (if insincere) language, and delivered in a non-whining, non-commanding tone. Thwarted by his superior height and ability to keep Julius just out of reach, the queen acquiesced. “Daddy, may I PLEASE have Julius?” “Please!” Ah, but Daddy was not ready to call a truce yet. He said, okay, “here he is, but to keep him, you need to listen to me.” Uh oh. He hands her the precious toy, then tells her to put it down and walk away from it, promising she can have it right back. She sets it down, but keeps her hand on it. He repeats his request so she lets go, but puts her head down in the very image of sorrow, inches from Julius. No, daddy is not satisfied; she must walk away from the toy. At last, spirit crushed, she walks way, trailing her arm out behind her as if to brush her lover’s fingers before leaving each other forever. Elated, daddy hugs her and tells her the toy is all hers.

Fifteen minutes later, I step on something painful and wrench Lego Julius from my tender arch. We may win the battles, but the outcome of the war remains to be seen.

My Better Half

My husband recently went away for a few days. There’s nothing like the absence of one parent to get a concentrated view of “how the other half parents.” Oh we’ve all heard it: “Daddy lets me do it.” “Mommy doesn’t do it like that.” It is true, we do a lot of harmless stuff differently (he parts her hair on the left, while I do on the right). Once and a while, we really differ on things, but mostly we’re on the same page for everything that really matters. So what’s the matter?

Daddy is stronger than me. Hey, I’m all about girl power, but he’s simply a larger and stronger specimen of the species. So he carries our daughter a lot more than I do. Fine, right? Uh, less so when he isn’t available to lug our growing girl up the flight of stairs in our house. As a rule, he gets her out of bed in the morning and carries her to the breakfast table. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite realize the ramifications of this simple, loving act until he went away. Then I got to reap the whirlwind.

Oh the tears and the drama that ensued the first morning I wouldn’t carry her to the table. She actually sat on the stairs and sobbed. Okay, you might sympathize, “poor baby, her daddy is away.” But no. Alright, I mean yes and no. She missed daddy, and she missed the routines he plays a central role in. Mostly, though, she is simply at that stage in which she wants to be carried around about half the time simply because she wants the affection, or misses cuddly-baby-treatment. And I can’t, okay, won’t do it. She is perfectly capable of walking up and down the stairs (and frankly, klutz that I am, she’s safer on her own two feet).

Like I said, my husband and I are in agreement on most parental issues. We also believe in the power of the unified front. But he just doesn’t see the harm in him carrying her. Problem is, he leaves me with this particular piece of baggage when he’s not there.

Ups and Downs

Preschoolers are bipolar. No, I’m not talking about fashionable illness catch-alls like ADD; I’m talking about the stop and spin on a dime way a three year old can go from giddy as a school girl to sobbing uncontrollably. As far as I can tell, the triggers are all but identifiable, both for joy and sorrow. Daddy shaking out a pair of pants spawns a fit of giggles while the wrong rubber band color causes a hair-wrenching (literally) fit. Yet, like the borderline OCD qualities so many toddlers exhibit–compulsively lining up toys, eating food in a specific order or by color, ritualistic bedtime behavior–preschool bipolarism is, uh, normal. So buckle up, mom, its gonna be a bumpy ride.

Terror Alert

I am typing this while under threat of a coup.  There is a terrorist in my home and I am refusing negotiation.  This refusal has lead to a state of household emergency.  The terrorist I am referring to is my nearly two year old son, the baby Goliath.  The current issue is one we have had before, lunch is not up to his rigorous standards.  No, the food is not bad.  In fact, he asked for the sandwich.  The problem is that the cheese on the sandwich has been torn.  Torn cheese is ruined cheese.  You see, if for any reason cheese slices are not in their pristine state, they are inedible.  By refusing to replace the slice of cheese that he tore, I effectively starved the child.  Now, the torn slice of cheese has tainted the entire plate of food surrounding it making the whole lunch ruined.  This of-course is my fault, even though he is the one who tore the cheese.  My refusal to replace the offensive cheese has resulted in a full on tantrum.  Screaming, crying and jumping up and down has become a relatively common occurrence.  The closer my child comes to two years old, the more extreme the behavior has become.  I remember going through this phase with my other son despite my best efforts to block it out of my mind.  All children go through period of time where they are too little to reason with and too big to ignore.  I understand this is all part of growing up, but I am really losing my patience with the whole thing. 

Compare and Contrast

Nothing worse than a maternal pissing-contest. Nobody gets very far and more than likely, you just end up with your own legs getting wet. Alas, they are common and sometimes unavoidable.

I found myself at the table with a competitive mother the other night. Everything I said was met with an attempt to one up. I am an odd mom, though, as my co-blogger Amanda would certainly attest. I am a workaholic in all things while at the same time leaning toward the hippy side of life. Thus, my dear daughter used organic cloth diapers, breast fed (less and less, of course) until 17 months, and ate home made baby food. And I worked full time from the time she was 2 weeks old (luckily, at home for much of the time).

My antagonist at the table, however, thinks breastfeeding is icky, didn’t know they even made cloth diapers anymore, and when I said I made my own baby food almost stabbed me with a fork. I would have pointed out that the trade off was that she is thin and tan, where I am bloated and pasty, but I’m guessing only her date would have laughed. (Honestly, I repeatedly said every mom is different and all kinds of kids are great.)

Interestingly, she asked how my daughter was with tantrums. Now, as we know, I am not unscathed when it comes to this charming aspect of toddler behavior. Oh no. I told her we use the time out chair method and she said that didn’t work for her. I said I had to modify it with social-deprivation (put her in a separate room, facing the wall or she liked being the center of attention in the chair), but my fellow mom said that wouldn’t work either. Her son, as it turns out, mocks her when she scolds him. She said everything she does in terms of discipline inspires him to laugh outright. I will say that while my girl defies me, my mad-mommy voice inspires fear. I would say it is just that I have a meaner mad-mommy voice than my new, uh, friend, but having heard her mad-at-another-mommy voice, I knew she could inspire ill will with her tone.

So I suggested “laying it down hard”: I said, with a dominant dog (do I always come back to dog training? yes, I guess it is my fall back position; I recommended Mother Knows Best, by the way), y0u make the animal earn everything. Food, toys, a walk are all earned through good behavior. I said, take every toy he has away. Stuff ’em into garbage bags and put them in the garage. Every hour or day or meal he is good, let him pick a toy or book to have back. I could tell she thought I was quite mad. But hey: I never let things get as far as she did with her boy and desperate times call for desperate measures. And since another mom at the table who heard how disrespectful the toddler boy was to his mom, suggested the wooden spoon technique…

IrRationalizing

Ah yes, the tantrums. I may be flogging this horse a bit, but better than flogging the tantrum-thrower, yes?
It is my feeling that a tantrum is best ignored. If it occurs in a situation in which there might be a “reasonable” cause, then trying to ascertain that cause for say, 30 seconds, seems worthwhile. However, prolonged attempts to figure out the cause of a tantrum strikes me as quite futile. In fact, it seems to actually fuel the fire “Look, I’m getting all this focused attention! Woo Hoo!” (Or boo hoo as the case may be.). Unfortunately, my dear husband is still in complete denial over our precious flower entering this phase and just this morning went on and on, “are you sick, honey? does something hurt, honey? what is wrong, honey?” Frankly, other than the goo oozing from her nose, little about this child brings to mind Honey at times like these. But hey, I’m just her mom. And she is, after all, daddy’s little girl.

Non-Verbalizing

Just when my child developed an effective ability to speak, she entered what are colloquially known as “the terrible twos.” This charming moniker is apt, within its limitations. For example, it implies that this alarming phase of random apoplectic behavior would be limited to the age of two (and also that if you make it to say, 2 1/2 without onset that you have dodged this bullet… oh, your precious angel would never…). But I digress. At about 2 years, six months–when H had just developed the ability to recount her days, describe a boo-boo and its origins, and request that the stems be removed from her broccoli–she abandoned language in favor of the tantrum.

I’m guessing I’m not alone in mother land in that, while asking me to select the orange skull and cross bones socks rather than the adorable bow-bearing ones may not make sense to me, it is vastly more effective than a complete atomic meltdown during which I can’t decipher a single word. So today, when she asked if possum Crash could pick her up at school (and don’t I wish the little free loading stuffed animal would!), I asked her if she thought Crash was more likely to pick her up if she 1) asked him nicely or 2) cried and bellowed. I know this will come as a shock, but she had no reply. At least she didn’t throw a fit.