Surviving the Tantrum of ‘04

By Gwen Moran

It comes when you least expect it, with more fury than an F-6 tornado, and the potential to be just as destructive. It can strike at home, but will more likely hit when you're out and about, minding your own business, running a few errands, or having lunch at a local chain restaurant. "It" is the terrible temper tantrum - that wild outburst from a person fewer than four feet tall which strikes fear into the hearts of parents and inspires looks of disdain among the young, single and childless everywhere.

Abigail had always been an agreeable child, and I was one of those smug parents who delighted in the fact that my child was almost always better-behaved than any others who might be with us. So, I was convinced that the so-called "terrible twos" were simply the result of parents who didn't know how to handle their children.

I was firmly entrenched in that oblivious state when I decided it would be a good idea to take my newly-two-year-old cherub to an event hosted by my friend, Audrey, who had just published a new children's book. My sister-in-law and I piled her two children and Abigail into the car and set off for some fun family time.

The hour and a half that followed is one that will take years of therapy to blot from my mind. As we settled in for story-time, my sprightly daughter jumped off my lap, hopped up onto the small stage in the middle of poor Audrey's reading and, facing the 15 or so kids listening to the story, proceeded to point to each of them and ask her new favorite question, "Who's that? Who's that? Who's that?"

As I tried to grab her, she darted off with another little girl out into the main section of the book superstore. As the girl's father and I chased after them, the customer service clerk scolded -- to two exasperated parents trying to fetch their runaway toddlers -- "There's no running in the store!"

I caught up to Abby when she paused to push a book cart into a sign, nearly knocking it over. She had better luck upending a small display of Clifford en Espanola books. Her giggly shrieks made Audrey's reading inaudible, and when I was finally able to scoop her up, she screamed. I put her down and ran back to the reading area, stealing the crayons that Audrey had just passed out for a coloring project. I took them away from her, explaining that we don't take other children's crayons, and she threw herself on the ground, screaming as if I'd just beaten her with a cactus.

Red-faced, I gathered up her wailing, writhing little body, whispered to my sister-in-law that we'd wait in the car, and made my way outside amid the dirty looks of other parents and random book store customers, not to mention the snooty customer service clerk who might have suffered bodily harm if I'd had a free hand.

Later that evening, I pondered the events of the day and realized that I wasn't immune to these meltdowns. Worse, there would probably be more of them, especially on days where one of the day care moms has brought cupcakes into school or Daddy snuck in a cookie or two before nap time. I realized that rationalizing with a screaming two-year-old wasn't going to do any good. Sometimes, the only answer was to admit that one particular battle was lost and to wait out the storm - or the reading - in our SUV.

I'm no longer the holier-than-thou woman glaring at you as your toddler kicks and screams loud enough to wake the dead. The next time you wish for the Earth to open up and swallow you as your very own offspring bellows, "I want a pink frosted donut NOOOOOWWWWW!" I'm the one who gives you an understanding look or a reassuring pat on the arm, all the while thinking "Thank God that's not me."