My daughter is beginning to throw temper tantrums. And, wow, between signing NO every time she sees the car-seat and wailing at the top of her lungs whenever life is minutely frustrating, the entire dynamic of parenting seems to have changed. A few week ago, we took her to a baby shop to pick up a check they had for us, and Micaela threw the toddler death star of tantrums since she wanted to grab all, and I repeat: all, the fury toys they had.
No, really. She did. She threw a tantrum so fantastically epic that we were almost asked to leave. I’m sorry, let me repeat that for you. WE WERE ALMOST ASKED TO LEAVE. Because of her tantrum. When my daughter has babies of her own who go all limp-noodle on her in the middle of a shop FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER except that maybe Jupiter was in the wrong house or an ant dared to trek across the ground in front of them, she better call me up. I would love nothing more than to go out and grab some frozen yogurt and bond over tales of how appalling and humiliating and generally amusing flash tantrums can be.
But in the meantime, while I busy myself collecting good you-owe-me material for when I am old and need my daughter to change my depends, patience is my go-to tantrum-fighting weapon.
Well, it would be patience and chocolate. But I´m trying to diet. I WONDER HOW THAT HAPPENED.
Tantrums are, thus far, the most challenging aspect of parenthood for me. I want nothing more than to give in and make my child happy. But I also want Micaela to know that although I love her dearly and will happily give of myself, my food, my time, my arms, I will not satisfy her every whim. So while she wails, I wait. And while I wait, I wonder. Does she understand the alternatives I’m presenting her with? Have I done something to reinforce this behavior? Am I squashing her freedom of expression? Is there an explanation like exhaustion or hunger that I am overlooking?
As soon as my daughter finishes a tantrum, I always tell her the same thing: I love her. She never seems to care, of course. When the tantrum is over, she stands up with a smile and life goes on. But I tell her anyway. I tell her that I wish I knew how to better help her navigate through this phase of her life. I tell her that I love her silly and sad, happy and mad, frustrated and in tears, far away and very near.
And you know, even though the tantrums are presenting me with the first seeds of maternal self-doubt, even though I’m spending most of my time these days telling people that I’ll call them back later or trying to calm down a child who is screaming for no other reason than that is apparently what toddler lungs were made for, I think that pretty much sums things up for this age.
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