The heat is creeping towards 100 degrees today, so ice cream sounds like a good idea.
It could have been a good idea if my toddler had gotten her nap. Instead, we are out and about with my aunt, wandering up and down the blocks of quaint Old Town. She offers us this cool treat, and my daughter’s eyes go big and round when she sees its size. Wired and full of sugar, we turn the corner to visit the next store, and my chest tightens. It’s an old-fashioned toy store, displays of fun laid out at eye level, open and beckoning children to play and become attached. I steel myself for what lays ahead. This will not end well.
And it doesn’t. All my “mom tricks” are insufficient to overcome the heat, exhaustion, and injustice my daughter feels at being exiled from toy utopia. The tantrum begins. All sweetness leaves her face and a tiny, contorted monster lets forth a shrill battle cry. I’m sure the toy store staff have seen their share of meltdowns, but the shame of failure grips my stomach. A better mother would have prevented this perfect storm of misery. I think of the car, several blocks away. I gauge the ability of my third trimester form to haul this screaming monster several blocks in this heat, calculate the approximate length of the tantrum, and I take a deep breath. Our only hope now is a swift exit.
I gather the flailing mass of limbs under my arm, ignoring the alarm of passersby as her wails of protest alert them to what may be a possible kidnapping. I silently thank God for our remarkable resemblance. Then again, I muse, a kidnapping persona might be preferable to that of a parent whose child can do this. I remember what I thought of parents who had kids like these before I became a mother. I didn’t understand then that all kids are this kid some of the time.
I wrestle her into the car seat and drive the 20 minutes home. She is still screaming. I’ve blocked her out. What is she saying? Tuning back in, I register that she screams this phrase on repeat: “I WANT ANOTHER CHA-ANCE!” turning “chance” into a two-syllable word. “Cha-ance!” Me too, I think.
I want another chance to go back and insist that she gets her nap before we go out (or better yet, reschedule this outing for the morning). I want another chance to downgrade the size of her ice cream and to insist that we skip the toy store. I want another chance to go back and micromanage all the tiny details that led to this outburst. I sigh. Even if I had mitigated the tantrum by exerting every last ounce of control, we might still have ended up here, drowning in sweat and tears. There is one factor I can’t control, the most important one. She is a toddler. The part of her that will regulate and control her behavior just isn’t there yet. It isn’t her fault. It isn’t my fault. It’s who we all are at some point.
What does loving her through this look like? How do I teach her that tantrums are unacceptable while also guiding her to own a sense of self-control? How do I exercise self-control when all the patience has drained from my body? These are the questions I wrestle with daily as I wonder if this phase will ever end.
As the shrieking slows to gasps and sobs, I quietly unbuckle her and take her into my arms. She shudders. Neither of us speaks. This was a hellish episode, perhaps the worst we’ve seen so far. I hold her until she grows heavier and her body goes limp with sleep. I carry her into her bed and lay her down to rest. The sweetness has returned to her face. This episode is over.
I close the door quietly, tip-toe down the hall, and sink into our couch as the realization overtakes me. Through these tantrums, my daughter is learning to exercise control. At the same time, my Father in heaven watches as I learn to surrender it.