Never Let Them See You Sweat. And Never Wear a Wool Turtleneck While Changing a Diaper During a Temper Tantrum

This is Elaine Boosler's Dry Idea commercial about not letting them see you sweat from the 1980s (my formative teen years, during which, oddly enough, I was really into Elaine Boosler). Maybe if I were a comedian who worked nights and odd hours, instead of suffering from severe anxiety over getting to my day job on time every morning, this entire blog post would not have been necessary.

 The kid is seemingly--and thankfully--a relative latecomer to the full-blown temper tantrum. At 2-1/2 plus, as of last week, he had yet to have a full on kicking and screaming meltdown. And I mean the nuclear meltdown. The Chernobyl disaster. Yes, we often having whining accompanied by tears. We often have agitated pushing and kicking. We have many screeching "Nooooooos!" But there had yet to be a complete tantrum, like the ones I had been reading about lately in this NPR article, which dissects the tantrum, breaking it down, play by play, moment by moment, comparing it to tracking a severe weather system, and offering tips for dealing with tantrums, which all basically amount to: don't. They are unstoppable, irrational occurrences that need to be waited out, much like a hurricane.

Of late, during our worst moments, I've tried what Dr. Karp refers to as "kind ignoring." It seems to work rather well, if you've got the time for it. Example: the other night when the kid found a deck of cards he wanted to open, I took it from him, explaining "This is my last remaining, complete deck of cards. If I give them to you, I will have more cards scattered throughout the house, and should Stu and I ever decide to play a game of gin or host a poker night, we'll be at a complete loss." Don't ask when the last time I played gin was or if I've ever hosted a poker night (Although I will pause to note that I'm a mean gambler. Ask Stu about Vegas.). The point being, that for my own sanity, I need to know that there is at least one complete deck in the house. There was whining and crying and flinging about on the floor and screaming "I need the cards! They're mine!! I need them!" Per Karp's advice, I simply stated, "You're upset now, and that's okay. I'll let you be upset and when you're finished, I'll come back."

The kid lolled about for a bit longer while I retired downstairs. Moments later, I heard, "Mommy, I'm done being upset now." And the evening progressed quite nicely. The next time I tried this approach, it worked almost instantaneously. The kid was upset that we were turning off the television and started up with his whining and rolling back and forth in an annoyed fashion. I began my remarks regarding leaving him to be upset and before a single tear was shed, he said, again, "Mommy, I'm all done now." Deeeelightful.

This morning, while in my wool turtleneck and having to leave for day care drop off and work, it was another story entirely. Initially, the morning was fabulous. There was not a fight or a whimper or a whine throughout the entire proceedings of waking up, eating breakfast, or getting dressed. And just as we were about to don our coats and actually leave the house earlier than necessary (Oh, hooray! Oh, joy! I might actually be on time to work!), the usual schedule stopper began: "Mommy, I have a poop coming."

Well, not to worry. We're early. At worst, maybe we'll be on time or just a touch later than usual. 

However, when the time came to whisk the kid upstairs for changing, all hell broke loose. The kid is never a fan of my hauling him upstairs for a change, but it usually occurs with nothing more than a couple of pleas for a few minutes more play time before the affair begins. But today, the resistance was wicked. Without the details, despite all my previous tales of changing a kicking, screaming, and crying child, none of it compared to what happened this morning. It required force which I didn't know I had. It required knowledge of wrestling moves I didn't know I knew. It required a t-shirt and shorts and not a wool sweater and corduroys. It required a towel to mop up my perspiration.

It also required tactics that I wish I had had the time to execute. I should have let the kid have his tantrum rather than proceed with every conceivable incorrect approach. As I said to Stu later, when recounting the tale, I did everything wrong. 

I engaged. I asked questions. I yelled. I pleaded. I manhandled. I yelled some more. And then I shouted, just for good measure. And then I yelled again. I should have just let the whole thing be. At the end of it all, when the kid was lying on the floor in an askew pull up, the result of a failed wrestling match, when I was too tired and overheated to continue, I realized I would have saved time and bodily fluids had I just ridden out the storm and let him flail about and changed him when he was finished. I was going to be late anyway. Now I was going to be late and sweaty.

That's the thing about being a working parent. Sometimes you sweat the small stuff because you don't have time not to sweat in order to get to work on time.