Hi. I haven’t written in a while. Maybe i should blame my 1.25 jobs or my two classes or my 2.8 year old. But really, I haven’t had time. So thank you for picking back up with me. 

Oh, the tantrum. It all began innocently enough. The best stories do. Boychild and I had a merry morning.  He consumed Peppa Pig and I consumed a near-lethal amount of Dark Magic coffee in a Monty Python mug. After Peppa had fallen down laughing for the umpteenth time and I was caffeinated enough to think rationally, things began to go downhill.

Lemme just take a side trip here and say the “think rationally” thing is not an overstatement. If you observe me before I have coffee, you will find a semi-comatose woman who doesn’t know where she is or why she is awake. This woman will also cut you if you ask her a question before her morning haze has cleared. I am slow to wake up, whereas every man I’ve ever known is a chatty Cathy (Carl?) in the morning. These gents learn quickly to leave me be, as my morning funk is not to be trifled with. My son is  slow to wake, but only after naps. He can be a hell-beast upon waking in the afternoon. I completely understand, and I try to ease him into consciousness with snacks and hugs and stories. Maybe someone should try that with me.

Anyhow, great morning til the banana incident. BC requested another banana for second breakfast, and I complied. These poor bananas were both underripe and bruised (how?), so I peeled one and bit off a small portion see to see if it was edible. Boychild F.R.E.A.K.E.D. OUT. The following approximates our 6am dialogue: 

BC: SQUAAAHHHHHH! Mama! No, mama! No!!  Put it BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!

ME: What, your banana?

BC: Yes! Put it back!

ME: I can’t  put it back, honey, I ate it. 

BC: Take that BANANA out chore mouth and put it BACK! (all the while, he’s pointy his chubby moist finger at me).

ME: But honey, the banana is in my tum tum. 

BC: *screams in backwards Latin*

Now, at this point, my mind flashes back to the regurgitator. This guy had a Peter Stork hairdo and was Russian or Dutch or something. He had an accent and was too thin to be a regular American. This is back in the 90’s. This fellow could swallow a whole host of things: lightbulbs, goldfish, his feelings, then regurgitate them unharmed. I wished I had that power right then. I would surely throw up that banana -tip to make my child happy. Alas! I have many skills (I’m great with eyeliner, can do many dialects and burp on cue) but I never picked up that one. 

Usually, B.C.’s tantrums stop after a few minutes. I use a proven technique where I ask Boychild to find three things of the same color, or we look for all the soft things in the house. It takes his mind off what’s upsetting him and he chills the eff out. Then he says something cute like, “I’m not mad anymore, mama,” and we go about our day. On this day, it did not work. 

The relentless call to put the banana back gave way to screaming at me and crying. I felt personally attacked, so I tried to just, sort of, I don’t know, ignore the behavior. I grabbed two of his favorite books and pretended to read them, hoping to pique his curiosity. But he came over to me and SLAPPED them OUT OF MY HANDS. 

BC: NO! Mama, NO! I want my banana! (hit, hit, slap)

ME: Your banana’s right here. 

BC: *high pitched pterodactyl squeals*

Ooh, lord. It was a mess. I did not think it could get worse, until I tried to change his diaper. The squeals continued, then he began to hit me about the head and chest. I had had enough. I told him “No. We DO NOT hit,” in that very authoritative mom voice that I am cultivating. Well, this sent him into hysterics. I was dealing with a very tired and upset toddler and I was not doing well. At one point I actually thought, “Is he possessed? Is this how it starts? Will I come into his room and find him levitating?” 

I needed an old priest and a young priest, but Dad came to the rescue. Even though he was a Congregationalist, he’d hafta do. It was his day to sleep in, and I felt guilty that we were having such drama in the living room. Meanwhile, he felt guilty for trying to sleep while the proverbial house was burning down. 

With dad awake, I took a timeout to go have a shower and get out of the situation because I was actually being terrorized by my adorable child.  As I closed the door to the bathroom, B.C. charged me, like an angry bull. Charged at the door. Screaming “mama!!!!!!” and weeping, snot running down the lip. 

Have you ever had a squirrel aggressively come up to you at a park? It felt kind of like that. Like you know that this teeny creature isn’t going to harm you because you’re waaay bigger and faster and yet at the same time it is frightening and terrifying because this little critter has so much aggression towards you, and it might be rabid.

I had obviously made a misstep. Several missteps, actually, but the shower helped. We both needed a time out from each other. Dad worked his “dad-magic” and all was well. Me and B.C. were great friends for the rest of the day. 

I don’t know what the h3ll was up with that morning, and we’ve had some tantrums since, but no repeat performance of that traumatic time. Toddlers are weird, man.