When my oldest daughter was little, she had what might have been the loudest meltdown our local grocery store ever experienced. She wanted Care Bear Stickers. I said no. The rest will go down in the books as one of the greatest dramatic displays known to man.
Abby was the was the queen of temper tantrums. I can say this with complete confidence. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one. I can still remember throwing my older sister’s doll down the stairs, stamping my feet and screaming “I’m not tired!” when my mother made me lie down for a nap.
Temper tantrums are no fun. For anyone. But here are a few ideas. Keep in mind, I am not a child psychologist, a doctor, a behaviorist, or an expert of any kind. I am a mother. And a grandmother. I don’t know everything, but I can show you the ropes. (Note the boxing idiom.)
Please note that I hate blood sports and I know nothing about fighting, but bear with me… this is a good analogy.
Somewhere along the line, I figured out that parenting is a lot like prize fighting.
When boxers are in the midst of being beaten up by their opponents, they have three choices. They can take a dive. They can push away or they can pull in close to their opponent.
Taking a dive may seem like the most appealing option, but essentially, once the count reached three, you’ve lost the match. You will never go on to win the Title. And you are branded as a sucker. Forever. This may work in the ring, but as a parent it’ll never wash. You love your kids. You cannot give up on them. And, believe me, you don’t want to be branded as a sucker. That will only invite trouble further down the line. The only suitable choice is to hang in until the bell rings and you get a breather.
How does one hang in?
Prize fighters either push away from their opponent or the pull in so close that the opponent can’t punch them. Kids have remarkable stamina when it comes to temper tantrums, whining, insisting, and other annoying behaviors. Sometimes you may feel that if you hear, “Mmmoooommmmmmmyyyyy!” or “But WHY?” or “They always, we never!” one more time, you will explode. When you’ve had all you can take, you might want to pull away for a moment or two, so you can calm yourself. Go to another room. Send your little monster/spawn of Satan/spoiled brat loved one to a time out area, or to spend the afternoon with Grammie. But this is a temporary solution meant only to catch your breath.
The real magic happens when you pull your child in close.
When prize fighters are nearing exhaustion, have been getting the punk kicked out of 
them, and can’t take one more blow, they pull into their opponents and hug them close. Now, let it go on the record that hugging a half-naked, sweaty enemy whose main goal is to punch my lights out is not my idea of a good time. And sometimes, pulling a screaming, sweaty four-year-old away from the candy section of the grocery store is almost as bad. But these are our children we are talking about. The fruit of our loins. The product of our love. I have found that when our children are at their nastiest, we need to pull them in close. Hug them. Kiss their sticky, teary little faces. Talk to them in calm, reassuring tones. Remind them that when they are at their worst, we still love them the best. This is not rewarding bad behavior. It is digging beyond the surface to address the deep desire we all have to be loved, even when we don’t deserve it.
This may seem paradoxical, but when we pull our rotten, whining, fighting offspring close to our hearts, they start to relax. They stop crying. They begin
to allow you to give eye contact. They begin to listen to you, and wonder of wonders, they even start to obey. You may not exactly have won the round, but you haven’t lost either. And by the time the bell rings and you look at that soft, sweet angelic little person snuggled into your arms, the reason for the fight seems not important at all.
There are those who might say this is spoiling the child. I am not saying that you throw in the towel (See? Another boxing metaphor) and give your cherub the candy/toy/money/phone that she’s screaming for. We can stand firm in our decision, but lavish the love at the same time. There may be tears, but if we love them until the bout is over, we may all come away with fewer bruises. 
After all, if our kids aren’t worth fighting for, what is?
It’s 90 degrees outside, and the temperature is still rising. This is the second day of this heat; certainly not typical of June in New Hampshire, but sweltering none the less. Earlier in the week my daughter Abby mentioned that her downstairs air conditioner was not working.
We children found relief from the heat in many ways. We hiked up Academy Hill to the town library, and sat inside the cool granite walls, turning the pages to lose ourselves in adventures of exotic people in far-off lands. We sat beneath the shade of the catalpa tree, drawing tic-tac-toes in the earth below the eaves on the north end of the house on Green Street. We checked the pay phone at the corner of Main and Lincoln Streets for spare dimes and bought Popsicles to split and share. And on rare occasions, ended the day with a swim at a lake, hanging our bare feet from the back of the station wagon on the ride home.
Certainly reminiscences of the Days-Before-Air-Conditioning are more pleasurable done in the comfort of my apartment, where central air is included in the rent, and window fans are forbidden. However, I do believe that given uncomfortable circumstances, most people will find creative solutions. As I learned from my mother, Abby learned from me how drawing the shades and keeping the house neat, clean and calm lends itself to a cooler environment for her little boys. Yesterday she filled a wading pool for Judah and let him splash until his toes looked like prunes and his hair formed spikes that dripped pool water over his face. She took him out for sorbet…before lunch! She found a spot in the shade for Abram, who undisturbed by the sound of traffic and his brother’s happy shrieks, turned his face toward the breeze and settled into a relaxed summer snooze.
let them sit on the table, just as they are. They won’t be anything but lemons. They’ll look like lemons, smell like lemons, and taste like lemons as long as they are left untouched. Or until they rot. Then, they’ll turn brown, smell awful, seep into the bowl, grow mold, and lose their shape. You can enjoy- even relish fresh lemons, just as you can bask in the sadness of life’s disappointments. But only for a season. It’s up to you to determine how long that season is. Just know that the longer the season, the less fresh the fruit.
began to set the table for dinner. The plates were stacked on a shelf that was just above my shoulders, and in my attempt to juggle enough for our family of ten, the stack began to slip from my grasp. One by one, the plates fell to the floor, smashing to ceramic shards, until there was one lone plate in my hand. I turned to my horror-stricken mother. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open, but no sound escaped. I knew the next moments were not going to be pretty. I looked at the lone plate in my arms and without a word, let it fall too. Some things are not salvagable. When you meet the end of the road, call it quits and find another route.
ability to turn negatives to positives. We don’t always understand why, and it’s not that trials won’t come. But we are never alone. And in the end, it all comes out in the wash.
A Cup of Tea with Momma G 