I'd be remiss if I let Deaglan's toddlerhood pass without writing a solid post on tantrums. As much as you hear about all of our special moments, and my ga-ga kind of love for my boys here on this blog, I don't want you to think I'm living in some creepy opposite land where my almost-three-year old doesn't make me want to rip my hair out at least a few times a week and whisper to the infant keep up the good work, you're my favourite.
I wish I could describe in words the screechy banshee-like ugly cry Deaglan goes into when a tantrum overtakes him. It's this nerve-jangling, stomach-lurching kind of shrieking that unites Shaune and me on at least this one thing - we need to either figure out how to make him stop or devise a way to unplug our hearing. And there is NO REASONING with him...no telling him he might wake up the baby, no reminding him that he is no longer a baby, no bribing him with chocolate or money, no kissing, no hugging our way out of it. It stops as mysteriously as it begins and we are forced to just wait it out.
Yesterday, and I don't want to make myself out into a hero or anything, but yesterday, despite that it was near-freezing outside, or that I had slept a total of 30 minutes the night before and the solid truth that the last thing I wanted to do was go outside, I suited us all up and took the kids to the park as I try to do everyday. Deaglan trailing along on his tricycle felt that I was walking too fast for his liking and launched into a tantrum. I wanna go home Mommy!!
After some back and forth:
Me: We're not going home.
Him: Yes mommy, I WANT TO GO HOME!!!!!
I became silent and neutral (I'd read that was the appropriate response to wait a tantrum out) and continued pushing the stroller down the sidewalk towards the park while Deaglan followed me on his trike, crying hysterically, much like the way you would if someone just beat you with a baseball bat. And of course every retired grandma and grandpa within a two mile radius was out walking our route at that exact time, and seemingly having forgotten what this phase of parenthood was like, stopped to ask the kid if he was okay. Lots of AWWWW you poor little sweetiepie, so that his cries, now with an appreciative audience, became louder and more agonized.
He's fine, move it along, I wanted to say.
And later that afternoon when I announced that we were getting into our costumes to go Trick-or-Treating at Mommy's work, you would have thought I said, I'm gonna stick pins in your eyes and serve you a big helping of dog poop for supper.
I don't know. They say things like You need a license to drive a car, but anyone can have kids. I think the saying should be amended to include something about the specialized forensic child psychology graduate degree and nerves of steel needed to ride out these expressions of development.