The Tantrum Monster Strikes Again (and Again)

Cole in a calmer moment

Another mind-numbing temper tantrum from my son today.

Is it really that difficult to be the middle child?

He began the screaming uncontrollably in the living room for possibly stubbing his toe or maybe because he didn’t want to go to school.

We tried explaining we couldn’t help him if he didn’t tell us what was wrong.

More screaming, slobbering, snot-flying, body thrashing.

A list of the approaches we tried: oh poor sweetie-pie, what’s wrong?, tough love, ignore the noise approach, and get his boots on regardless of him fighting it.

None of them worked.

Eventually Nick carried him to the minivan and strapped him into his seat with no coat, no glasses, and one Spiderman boot.

I had the joy of driving on I-95 while he screamed, which eventually petered out halfway to school. He started up again at school until his teacher came out, gathered him up and brought him inside. Crying abated.

And then I drive away wracked with Mom Guilt.

Is this just normal three-year-old craziness or is he starved for more attention?

Picking My Battles (I Keep Forgetting)

This morning was off to a decent start. My sinus infection was the least horrendous it’s been in a week and a half. I was ready to battle the day.

The kids were actually in the kitchen ready to get their shoes on at 8:30. And then the trouble began.

I guess my son’s Lightning McQueen sneakers are a wee bit big on him, so he likes to wear them on the wrong feet because he says they feel better that way.

Well, he wanted me to put them on for him this morning and I tried to put them on the right feet. Big mistake.

Screaming. Throwing of sneakers.

“If you want them on the wrong feet, then you need to put them on yourself.”

“No! You do it!”

Enter Dad.

“You’re going to put them on the right feet. It’s bad for your feet the other way.”

And I guess his patience was worn from the constant whining and complaining from my son over the last few weeks, so he picked up Cole, put him on his lap, and tried getting his sneakers on the right feet.

At this point, his coat is soaked with tears, his glasses are mucky. And the old sinus pressure? Kicking up a notch.

All forms of logic—don’t you want to be able to run fast? Don’t you want to be comfortable? Not effective.

Now there’s kicking and flailing. The inevitable carry to the car and trying to hold him down to strap him into the car seat. But he’s got wiggly hips and I’m losing my calmness.

“I want my shoes on the wrong feet!”

I could use a tissue and some more Tylenol at this point.

Then I have him standing outside with no shoes on. More screaming. More me about to scream. Carry him inside with no shoes on.

“I want my gloves!”

Yes, here are gloves. Yes, the screaming stops. We walk outside, with no shoes. I strap him into his seat. I hand him his sneakers.

My daughter’s been sitting in her seat patiently this whole time. I start driving. Swing my head around to see Cole’s big eyes magnified in his new glasses. His feet in the wrong shoes.

“Look! A big yellow dump truck!” I point out.

There are bigger battles to worry about.

Are wrong shoes on feet really a big deal?