Wanna Come Over For a Glass Of Wine? My Kid is Having a Tantrum.

by Cookie

acechilddisciplineguide.com

Anyone who currently has, or has raised a toddler is all too familiar with one thing:  The tantrum.  Anyone who claims to not have a toddler who freaks out spontaneously and makes you want to guzzle tequila on a daily basis is either  total fucking liar, or has like 17 nannies who deal with this shit for them.

If you fall into the latter category, please stop reading.  Actually just go away.  I want my misery to have some company, and I don’t need any  bitch from Superior Land to tell me all the reasons why I am facilitating this and blah blah blah.  There are enough things that are my fault, and plenty of opportunities for me to fuck up my kid coming in the next few years.

So yeah.  The tantrum.  I’m going on the assumption that the mechanics of a tantrum are all pretty similar.  Toddler wants.  Toddler doesn’t get.  Toddler freaks out.

Sound about right?

If your kid is anything like mine, there are degrees of tantrum too.

Let’s start with a first degree tantrum.  These are usually short lived.  Notice I didn’t say mild.  There is no such thing as a toddler doing this shit half assed.  Tantrums are always intense, but it’s the duration and side antics that define the level. No?  For example, yesterday our internet was being retarded.  As in the actual meaning of the word retarded.  Delayed. Slow.  Not loading Baby Einstein in a millisecond.  That’s all it took for the Destroyer’s yogurt to go flying across the room during breakfast.  All over the floor, the wall, the chairs, everything.  Not to worry, my furry clean up crew was on it.  Then I noticed one of the dogs was covered too.  Who the fuck is going to clean that?  Oh and yes, my kid watches tv during breakfast.  Blow me, super mommies across the world.  However, once I got the damn thing loaded, the Exorcist left, and my angel was back.  First degree tantrum.

Second degree tantrums.  This usually happens when something that needs to occur interferes with her agenda, or interrupts whatever little magic she is creating at the moment.  At our house, these often include trying to dress It.  My offensive behaviour usually starts by requiring It to not be naked.  This is a major issue.  I don’t care much about the nudity, but I care about piss on the furniture.  At least put a diaper on.

Anyway, a second degree tantrum will often result in a “limp baby”.  “Wanna interrupt my nakedness, motherfucker?  Wanna interrupt me playing with the thermometer?  My teddy bear has a temperature and you are wrecking my fun!”  So at this point, her body will go limp, making it impossible to carry her, let alone get her feet into those fucking onesie pajamas.  And if you do happen to get a foot in, it will promptly be removed by the time you attempt the other side.

Third degree tantrums.  These suck.  They last forever.  They make you consider having your tubes tied, or becoming celibate forever.  The child is completely inconsolable.  You are inconsolable.  And this is what you do to solve it: Not a goddamn thing.  The third degree tantrum is nothing but a power struggle.  Who will give in first?  Not me.  NO fucking way.

This usually happens when It wants something, and I say no.  It involves her throwing herself on the floor.  It involves a whole lot of noise and a whole lot of time.  My suggestion?  Get some earplugs, and open a bottle of wine.  If you give in, It will subconsciously remember  that it works, and will use this tactic later in life.  You will pay for it.  Stand firm, the third degree tantrum is annoying but it is a metaphor for the teenage years.  Prepare yourself.

Oh and then there is the little gem, the Public Tantrum.  This is the one that really makes you think about selling your kids.  At what point do you just say “fuck it” and leave your full cart of groceries in the aisle?  At what point do you box your food to go and hightail it out of the restaurant.  First degree? Second?  I think that you can manage until third degree, because that is the one you can’t fix.

Anyway, it is a joyful time in our household.  Blizzards.  Tantrums. Another baby.

I better make certain the bar is stocked for summer.  Oy!