Maybe this will help me normalize my child's behavior, or maybe it will help me to seek help before I have a 4 year old serial killer on my hands in a few years. You decide. Needless to say, it was a rough evening. No child psychology course or lecture on how to counsel parents could prepare me for this night.
The afternoon actually started out well as I got off early and headed to get the boys from daycare. However, as we hit our driveway the proverbial "stuff" hit the fan. (And believe me, after tonight, it is almost worth using the other word for "stuff.") I couldn't even get him out of the car in one trip. I had to take Griffin and our bags into the house before returning to the screaming terrible-two screaming and climbing around in the car. Who knows what that lady and her dog thought as they walked by.
Unfortunately, it didn't end in the driveway. I dragged him into the front door still screaming, but now he had a sweat soaked head and bright red, emotional cheeks. His feet started kicking as soon as he spied his little brother in the entry way. As much as I wish it was, it was not just a coincidence that Griffin caught that sandal in the leg. Mothers know which "accidents" are actually accidents, and that was no accident. My anger started to boil to an embarrassing level as Owen screamed in frustration and Griffin screamed in pain. In the ten steps it took to get Owen to his room the hits and kicks pushed me over the edge. I wish I could say that I calmly picked him up and placed him gently in his room, but the truth is that he landed on his bed with a thud and the door slammed shut behind me. Not a proud moment. At least then I could take a breath and gather myself.
Still, it wasn't the end of this Olympic length temper tantrum. I removed the wiffle ball bat from his room after it was swung against the back of the door a few times. I didn't cave when he repeatedly slapped his leg and cried out a dramatic "ouchy!" I held the door handle closed after he broke the child-proof handle on his side of the door. (Yes, we used to, and if possible still would, lock him in his room to calm down.) I listened from the hall as he spat on the floor, and I HATE spitting.
Finally, there was a moment of quiet from his room. I opened the door. The ornery look was still on his face, but we tried to head for the time out chair anyway. (That little red chair in the living room is not a place to throw fits with so many distractions; therefore, our strategy for the all-out two year-old fit is to cool down in his bedroom before going to the chair for time out.) Well, we didn't even make it out of his room before he lost it. Again. I shut him in his room. Again. And we repeated that cycle. Again. And again. At least by this point, I was in control, and I knew I could wait him out.
We pulled into the driveway at 4:00. We finally made it to the time out chair at 5:00. Then he sat with "mouth quiet, hands quiet, and feet quiet" for two full minutes. One full hour of tantrum. I won.
No comments:
Post a Comment