How to Handle a Temper Tantrum

The "experts" will advise you to employ techniques such as:

1. Remain Calm
2. Ignore the Tantrum
3. Avoid Trying to Reason
4. Speak Softly
5. Express Empathy

I, on the other hand, can offer you far more effective means for dealing with one of the most frustrating aspects of parenting a toddler.

1. Plug Your Ears
While, at first, this may seem immature, you will be quick to appreciate its effectiveness. An enhancement to this technique is humming. Combined, you will find these two steps create a synergistic effect. If this is still insufficient...

2. Close Your Eyes
Closing your eyes, in addition to plugging your ears, can often be misleading enough to make you think the tantrum has stopped. Do not be fooled by this. Peek every now and then before resuming full sensory intake. If your child persists with the tantrum, distract him long enough to...

3. Run Away
A closet or a bathroom works well. Don't forget that in order for this method to help, you must be very quiet. I have celebrated great successes combining these first three methods in tandem. If you have not regained your sanity by this point...

4. Give In
Hey, why fight it? After all, stress kills.

Conversations with my Son

Conversation #1
Me: "Max, do you like going for a walk with mommy?"
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Did you like breakfast?"
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Do you like talking to mommy?"
Max: "Yeah"
...at which point I decide to throw in a validity check...
Me: "Do you want mommy to throw away all your toys?"
Max: "Yeah"
...end of conversation...

Conversation #2
Me: "Max, mommy doesn't like it when you throw the remote on the floor. It's going to break."
Max: "Sorry"
Me: "Did you just say sorry?" (astonished)
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Are you sorry?"
Max: "Yeah" (as he raises the remote over his head , preparing to throw it again)
...end of conversation...

Conversation #3
...a woman walks by the house, pushing a stroller...
...the dog starts barking...
Morgan (the dog): "Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, rufff, ruffff ruff, ruf, rufff, ruff.!"
Me: "Morgan!!!! No bark!!!!!"
Max: Ru, ru, ru, ru, ru!!"
Me: "Max!!! No bark!!!!"
...end of conversation...

"Let's give this woman a round of applause!" is what Max would have said if he had possessed the vocabulary. Instead, I got a great big smile and he did clap, quite joyously. That's what happened when, in the course of a pretty routine diaper change, I had to touch his "business." I had purchased some Huggies diaper wipes recently, instead of the Pampers I normally like and discovered that they leave a linty residue behind on my boys little bottom. Well, some of this lint was stuck to his "business" and when I went to pick it off, I was applauded. Having met with his expressed approval, I quickly taped the diaper back together, scooped him up off of the changing table and sent him on his way. But then I started thinking. And this may not be an easy thought process to follow, but bear with me for a minute. I start thinking how that was a TYPICAL male response and how funny that was. I crack myself up and laugh out loud about it, shaking my head. I think about how I'm always so careful not to make scrunched up, grossed out faces when I change his diaper because I've read that expressed displeasure, when you are changing a baby's diaper, can later impact their self esteem, particularly regarding their genitals. I also start wondering how it would feel to get a round of applause everytime we had contact with our husband's "business." Now I'm really cracking myself up. And thinking "YAH, we deserve it!" Then I start thinking about getting a round of applause for all the deserving things we do, whether it be flipping an egg without breaking the yoke or scrubbing a toilet. Not just a one man clap, but a full audience, round of applause. "Yay!!!! I did it!!! I folded the clothes!! AND...I PUT THEM AWAY! Yaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!" clapclapclapclapclap.....Then, I realize that's what I do to Max when he accomplishes something. I give him a fabulous round of applause. Now I'm thinking "gee, how strange is that!" So is he going to grow up expecting a grandiose validation for every little thing he does? Well, I won't worry about that just yet. For now, I'll continue to applaud all his accomplishments, which ARE grandiose in his mother's eyes anyway. And, apparently, I'll get my own kudos from time to time.

My son has long hair for a boy. I like it that way. He loves his hair too. He's never had a blanky or a binky or a bear for comfort. He's always had my long hair and his own. He strokes his hair while he drinks his milk (when mine's not available). He walks around with one hand in the air, softly tugging at his strawberry tusses and the other hand on his bottle. He does the same as he drifts off to sleep at night. His hair gets knotted in the back, from tossing around in his sleep. Sometimes he struts around all morning with a great, big, rat's nest at the back of his head until I have a chance to comb it out. He also likes to wipe his hands in his hair. We've had mud, soap, baby food, finger paints and cream of wheat, which dries like cement, plastered into his hair. This morning he took his piece of buttered toast and wiped it on top of his head. His hair was greasy all day. He doesn't mind if I slick it back like Guido the Italian Mobster for my own amusement. Sometimes he'll throw a hat on his head for his morning walkabout. After all, it's just an accessory for his hair. We've been through some interesting looks, like the "back-of-the-head bald spot," "the comb over" and the "first haircut." For now we'll keep it long. I like it that way.

Moments of these past few days flash inside my mind the way a strobe light pulses away in a tacky lounge. I hear my husbands words "OHMYGOD!" I see the blood pour from Max's forehead. I tear a muscle in my leg trying to get to them. I hear my baby screaming. Moments that string together the events of a day gone wrong. Our first trip to the emergency room. Watching my baby almost pass out from exhaustion in the middle of them fixing his little wound. Happy it was a clean gash. Trying to hold my composure for him. Waves of relief when he molds his small body to mine and clings tightly as we are leaving.

Maybe now we can get on with our weekend. Or maybe not. How about a cut on his toe, then a clip to his nose with more blood. Falling off a chair and a cold to top things off make our Easter weekend complete. Thank goodness for good company and good food in between events. We may consider a helmet and mittens in the future.

Today my mother taught my son how to put his foot in his mouth. I'm worried about my side of the gene pool. Nuf said.

Max has been pooping all day long. After the first poop, you think, "Glad to get that over with, now we can get on with our day." When the second poop happens, you think, "Wow, this kid's healthy!" When the third poop occurs, you think, "Hmmm, what have I been feeding you?" When the fourth poop makes it's way to your nostrils, you think, "alright, what's going on here...are you sick?" But you realize the poop looks healthy and your little poopasaurus seems to be feeling just fine. Then, when the fifth poop rears it's ugly head, you say out loud, "are you doing this on purpose???" You give a very conscious, disapproving look, as if to say, "stop all this incessant pooping!!" But you realize that you don't want to cause your small beloved to have "issues," so you quickly go back to smiling and singing happy poop songs. When that sixth poop comes into your life, you are cursing under your breath and wondering why you don't own any stock in the Pampers corporation. By now you are thinking about how you'll have to change the diaper bag from one prolific day alone. You are smearing white, zinc based paste between those cherubic little cheeks, hoping to protect them from further assaults. And you're wondering how many poops the other moms have to deal with in one day. I wonder if other kids poop all day like Max. At least it's not in his hand.

Max has a friend named Micah. Micah is happy and bright and easy going. And he is so cute. But Max can't control himself when he's around Micah. He pulls his hair, knocks him down, pulls his clothes, pinches his skin and wrestles him to the ground. He does this to no one else. And I sincerely believe that he likes Micah very much. I cannot explain this behavior. Max is not spanked and he has no exposure to aggressive behavior. Max is about 3 months higher up on the food chain than Micah and, certainly, there is a pecking order amongst toddlers, but I don't think this is explanation enough . Here is an example of the terrorism my child inflicts upon this sweet little soul:

Upon approaching a tearful Micah, looking desperately for his mommy...

Micah's mom: "What happened"?

Witnessing mom: "I don't know. The two of them were just running around together."

Micah's mom: (laughing) "Oh, you mean Max was CHASING Micah."

Me: "Yup, that sounds more like it." (shaking my head)

Witnessing mom: "No, I think they were having fun."

Me: "Sounds like MAX was having fun."

Micah's mom: "Micah probably started crying because he couldn't find me, to save him from Max." (now comforting her little guy)

In this case Max hadn't even put aggressive little hands on Micah. It was simply a case of terrorism by chasing. In the scheme of things, a manageable situation. But what about the next time? I tell Max to be nice to Micah. "Niiiiiiiiiice Micah," I say, similarly to how I teach him to handle our dogs more gently.

Max is Micah's own, personal, bully and I would really like to see little Micah put him in his place. This is the nature of toddler friendship. Their politics are rudimentary and primal, at best. Max is still, developmentally, too young for empathy. For now, all I can do is keep a close eye on their interactions and protect Micah...Max's friend.

"He's helping me," I tell myself. I pull the weeds by the root, so that they won't grow back. He pulls them from the top, disrupting the seed heads and causing them to disperse, so they'll be sure to find new homes in the soil. I fill the wheelbarrow with weeds, but before I can roll it over to the trash can to empty them, he has decided to empty them onto the ground. I pick them back up. He has found a snail. He reaches out a hand that's far too large for such a little person and before I can take it from him, he has squashed it. I guide his hand over the trashcan for an impromtu funeral. Before I can get him to the sink to wash the slime off, he licks it. I decide that little boys are gross. He leans his head down and spits the taste out, looks up at me and says "blech!" "Gross," I tell him. "Snails are not for eating." I decide the hose is closer, so I rinse off his hands. I set it down to run over and turn it back off, but by the time I do, he is wet. His hair and clothing are soaked. He's squealing gleefully. I remove the wet clothing and return to the weeds. He finds the drainage hole, removes the cap and fills it with shredded bark before dumping some more weeds out of the barrow. "He's helping me," I tell myself.

"I already picked that up," I say as I pick up the flash cards from the floor again. No one is listening. He is already focused on something else, dumping out the Legos I just picked up. "I thought you were done with those," I say as he is tossing them across the room. He runs off to gather cheerios that the dog has just knocked over from the counter, where he stashed them. He is too late and gives out a shriek. "Nana! Nana!" he screams. I peel a banana for him and he furiously shakes his head from left to right, letting me know that he did not want a banana, he just wanted to yell for a banana in his most demanding tone. Just practicing. I return to folding the laundry. I'm almost done with this load. He runs over to me and gives me a kiss. Then he starts yanking on the clothes I've just folded, pulling them to the floor. "I already folded those," I say as I pick the clothes up from off the floor. No one is listening.