I try really hard to be patient when the kids lose their cool and we find ourselves in the midst of a full-on tantrum.  I try to remember that it's because they don't have the experience to know that there are other, more effective ways to express their emotions.  Something just strikes them as wrong or unfair and instead of talking to me about it, they launch into crying at a volume that threatens deafness.

I've tried lots of ways to handle tantrums like this.  Sometimes my approach depends on where we are, or what it was that kicked off the temporary hysteria, and whether or not I can empathize even a little bit.  I try to remember that no matter what method I try or which method works, that ithe tantrum always passes.  Sophie holds the record around here for longest tantrum duration, and even that was done within half an hour.  It was an excruciating half hour, but when it was over, life was good again.

While we're in the midst of it though, I try not to imagine sitting in the exact same spot, ten years from now, staring at a teenager throwing the same kind of tantrum except magnified by a decade of experience.  I can handle a phase, but I worry that something that starts out as a stage could turn into a pattern of behavior due to my mishandling and mis-assessment of the situation.  What if it's NOT the best idea to talk calmly and tell the kids to go to their room and pull themselves together, to come out when they're ready to try again?  What if it DOESN'T work to tell them to take deep breaths and use words to explain what is on their mind?  What if a good old "Knock it off" or "Hey, that's enough" does more HARM than good? 

I try not to let this get to me, that fear future of mine.  It's not that different from a lot of fears that come with motherhood, I think.  It starts as a thought tucked in the back of my mind, and as time progresses, becomes a full-blown melodrama running on the big screen of my daytime nightmares.  That this thing that started as a phase will become a way of getting things done, fueled by my not nipping it in the bud at just the right point.  And in my fast-forward imagination, the next thing I'll know I'll be saying "All right Wonka, how much do you want for that golden goose".

The other night I grabbed two towels out of the closet for the kids to use after bathtime - one pink, one blue.  As I walked into the bathroom, Martin called out "I want the blue one!" and I said, "Sure, it's all yours."  So when the bath was over and I gave him the blue towel, I was shocked to hear a powerful wail projecting from his mouth.  Through all the yelling I gathered that I had given him the blue towel, not the BLUE towel he had in mind.  And, after I had exhausted my usual take a deep breath and knock it off approaches, I decided to try something else.  In hindsight, I think that my mind had been damaged slightly by all the shouting it endured, and I didn't quite think through my approach all the way to the end.

I thought it would be a good idea to explain the difference between things not going just as you'd imagined (hey, I got the wrong towel, it's a bummer but not too bad) and comparatively tragic situation that might warrant some tears (like a car careening into the driving and running over your bike so that it's smashed to bits).  And while it's true, the problem is that I ACTUALLY SAID THAT.

And Martin's response:
WHAT!? NO! NOT MY BIKE!

Might as well print this out and put it in the folder I created when he was born marked FOR MARTIN'S THERAPIST.  It's getting kind of full.