Mother of all Tantrums
@HonestToddler: Pre-bedtime hysterics! Amiright? Going out in a blaze of cray cray!
I am aware I was not the most subdued of children. I’ve offered to let my mom take to these here interwebs to provide her memoirs on my adventurous toddler years. She politely demurred. Noting that nothing good could come of that little endeavor. (So that gives you a brief idea.)
The afternoon started out so promising. I was barely through the gate of the preschool when both little muppets came running from the sandbox to see me. I got tackled by two smiling little dudes and bombarded with hugs.
We got home in a good mood (although to be fair I have no idea what the boys chatted about for the duration of the drive home).
This called for macaroni and cheese.
But with another minute and a half left of microwave time before adding the powdered orange cheese-like substance, a major muppet meltdown ensued. Major. Muppet. Meltdown.
The tantrum. My god, THE TANTRUM.
I’m talking exorcist possession, head-spinning, holy-water-burning, pea-soup-spewing, writhing, wriggling, flinging, flailing, screaming, screeching TANTRUM. (x2)
Destroy was clutching the gate, head tossed back, wailing. He flopped himself back and began screaming at the top of his lungs. Search was curled up in a ball against the couch, hiccupping with sobs.
Neither wanted anything to do with dinner. This is a rarity. Destroy wouldn’t even approach his little red table seat. Search’s bottom hit the seat and he began proclaiming, “All done!” without a single bite taken.
Destroy collapsed to the floor and literally began stomping his feet. His little fists were balled up as he screamed, “Noooooooo!” At what, I have absolutely no idea.
We gave up on dinner when Destroy hurled his sippy cup the length of the living room.
A friend inquired if Jon was home. Of course not. That would have made it 2-on-2. You can’t play zone defense when they outnumber you.
As the hysterics increased in intensity, I simply let them flail and wail. Behind the nutty meltdown I could see Karma laughing hysterically.
Perhaps a warm bath would calm them down. I alerted my friend for backup. “About to attempt bathtime. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, the house has obviously flooded. In that case come immediately with a large peanut butter and chocolate ice cream sundae.”
Twenty minutes later, I was wetter than the tub’s occupants. Destroy had sputtered and splashed before angrily gripping the blue Bathtime Fun Crayon and determinedly coloring his brother. (He’s in his “Angry Sibling as Canvas” phase.) After an attempted retaliation bite by Search, Destroy ate the evidence.
I now had Smurfs FUH-LIPPING their shit.
Forget the ice cream. Where was the wine. No glass needed. I’ll just take the bottle.
I stood back, clutching my adult-beveraged sippy cup. Oh Karma, you bitch. I’m pretty sure I could hear my mother laughing, “You have no idea,” to herself amid the gasping sobs. (She used to threaten to film me when I’d freak out. So in that respect, gotta be thankful *she* didn’t have a blog.)
I observed from a safe distance. They knew I was there. But they’d made it crystal clear I was not a desirable soother. I didn’t take it personally. It happens. They’re two.
But for the record – 2×2 = OMGWTFJUSTHAPPENED?!
They were now gagging from such hysterical sobs. “I don’t know what you want, little man,” I quietly told the batshit crazy boy. “Use your words.”
“OUT!!!” he hollered, running a stacking color cup along the baby gate like a 1930s Alcatraz prisoner.
I opened the gate.
Out marched two muppets. They climbed the stairs, approached their crib and demanded, “Up.” Thirty seconds later both kids were curled into a little ball under their blanket, comfortably hugging their stuffed animal of choice. Silent, serene and sucking their thumb.
I walked back downstairs, the sudden thundering silence ringing in my ears.
What the fuck just happened?