Lately M has been sportin’ some NASTY tantrums. I don’t know whatever happened to the terrible two’s, but let me tell you—it compares NOTHING to three.
The best part? She (mostly) throws them in public. Oh yeah. They make me look like “Mom of the Year” (please note sarcasm).
She chose to throw a big one on Thursday in our local mall in front of my visiting in-laws. While daddy was at work. Heh.
She wanted me to buy her a martini glass from Hallmark. I, for the obvious reasons, said no.
Yep, I dared to tell my three-year-old princess that she was NOT allowed to take home the martini glass.
That was my first mistake.
When she decided she was going to give herself a five-finger discount, and head for the door with said martini glass in hand, I tackled her. I quickly returned said glass to its rightful place (no, not in my hand with booze in it, but on the shelf). I let her know that it was time to leave the store. And that was my second mistake.
Turns out M wasn’t ready to leave yet, so she took off to the back of the store. Oh, no she didn’t!!
I grab her by the arm in true “Mom of the Year” style and drag her outside of the store. I placed her firmly (yet gently) up against the wall and began explaining to her the mistakes she made with her so-called decisions.
And that’s when the screaming began. And the kicking. And the hitting. Did I mention the spitting? Nope, didn’t think so.
So what do I do in this situation? I grab my kid underarm in true Q-B fashion and I run like
This is a big feat considering I’m a whole 5′2″ and M is well over 3′. The kid’s tall for her age. As her pediatrician says “real tall for her age.”
May I remind you that my husband’s parents are also with us, and the car is parked on the other end of the mall, on a different floor?
Yeah, it keeps getting better.
I make it through the mall, and an entire flagship store (through the china department) without knocking anything over. I have talent!! We make it to the elevator that would take us to our exit, and M grabs my sixty-nine-year-old black pearl necklace and starts to pull.
Death was imminent.
So I drop her. Turns out, she’s part cat, and lands on her feet. Yay far me
Now, let me take a moment to explain to you my avant garde parenting style. I don’t spank or hit of any kind. I do not raise my voice. I stay calm. I merely try to reason with the beast.
She wasn’t in the mood for reasoning. And sensing that her life was very possibly in danger for the whole “necklace grabbing incident” she takes off. I was nearly out of breath at this point, so again, I grab her arm and literally drag her out to the car. My in-laws climb in, and they’ve had it at this point. My ever-so-saintly mother-in-law yells at my kid. Yeah, the woman who NEVER blows her lid, did, and with my kid. Oh greeeeeat.
I calmly, and politely let my MIL know that I don’t yell at M. I just show her what bad mistakes she makes—and I call her father. Uh-oh. M heard me and FREAKS out.
“Don’t call daddy—mommy—please don’t.”
For some reason, she is terrified of her father. Don’t know why, because we live by the same rules. Maybe it’s because he’s bigger than she is. And we pretty much are the same height.
Darn you genetics.
John lets me know that he’s at lunch and will swing by home to put some pressure on M. So I toss the keys at my father-in-law, and they let themselves in.
At this point, M is spitting at me.
So what does a Domestic Debacler do in this instance?
I simply open all the windows and the car doors and leave her in her car seat, while I watch from a safe distance in a lawn chair a few feet from the car. She, thinking like the athlete she is, decides that I am the worst “Mother of the Year” and that I must be punished. And THE way to do that is to hurl her shoes at me. Well, one at me, and the other at the windshield of our SUV.
Look out Cincinnati Reds. I have your new lefty pitcher—RIGHT HERE!
I can’t help but to burst into laughter! She was so mad, it was comical, until she started calling me names. She pulled out the “S” word. Oh yeah. I’m sure she’s caught it around here, but I don’t exactly make a habit of cussing. For her to remember this—well—she’s got the mind of an elephant. So as I was being screamed at that “YOU’RE A “S” MOMMY,” I was nearly falling out of my lawn chair!!
Then John pulled in with a co-worker in tow. Oh yeah, it became a show! But suddenly M turns into a blubbering mess when she sees her daddy. How he has this effect on her, I’ll simply never know.
He brings her in the house and she promptly apologizes to my in-laws and myself. What? How? I haven’t the slightest clue. Ugh.
Then she announces that she’s going to take a nap, and does so … for the next four hours.
Which leads me to today. This afternoon, she didn’t want to take a nap, even though she got up at 6 a.m. So the tantrum started. I turned back into the Domestic Quarterback and ran her tooshie upstairs to bed, where she’s calling me “stupid mommy” over and over. So what do I do? I call daddy. At the mere mention of his name, she starts apologizing. And how does she do it? By saying, “I’m sorry for calling you stupid mommy, but at least it wasn’t S%^&!” Again, inappropriate laughter on my part, which my DH hears on the other line. We’re all laughing at this point.
Good times in the Domestic Debacle household.
So how does the Domestic Debacler handle tantrums? By calling daddy, and laughing.