Tantrums are an opportunity to find the depth of patience and love and failing that, a sweet secret quiet place to hide while the storm passes. If one were a zen monk, perhaps some cross-legged chanting would do the trick. If one were a sanctimommy, perhaps a good “use words!” discussion would ensue. If one were a grandparent, long long since well rested, vacationed, and slept, one would laugh it all away.
But alas, CrankMama is neither a monk, nor a sanctimommy, and certainly not a grandparent.
At best, the impact of a tantrum on the nervous systems of adults in my house is similar to the visceral gut punch of listening to George Bush talk about the Iraq War: It just ain’t right.
You know that old saw about a premature explicator repeating in his mind “dead puppies, dead puppies, dead puppies”? Well, a similar (if perhaps not as effective) mantra is: “She’s a puddin’, she’s a puddin’, she’s a puddin'”
And when the three of them are Stalin and my ass is thrown in the Gulag, I simply concentrate on them as babies. And think of how darling and precious they were. Back then before they could sass.
Sometimes this operation is more successful than others.