Be the pier, not the ocean: On taming tantrums

According to all PBS commercials, life with a 3-year-old was supposed to be one long, well-edited clip of her on a rainy day in a yellow slicker chasing a litter of ducklings across a park, playfully tossing homemade sourdough breadcrumbs into a pond, and racing me back to the car as an afternoon thunderstorm rolled in.

I’m a big believer that carseat commercials are birth control’s only real competition. They all convey smiling, giddy toddlers, happily strapped to their seats while their mom (donning a fresh blow-out and foundation) joyfully slides one door of the minivan closed before gleefully buckling in her second child. Both carseats are immaculately clean, the carpets are free of string-cheese liners, and no one’s shoes appear to be an aromatic combination of wet sand and pee. They also certainly omit the part about their clients refusing to use their product, or that all effort to exit a garage or parking lot with less than three reminders to “sit down, put on your shoulder straps, and don’t climb on my seats with your pee-soaked shoes” will ignite a reaction reserved only for outtakes and bloopers.

This morning my toddler began her day with a tantrum. Over what? Milk. Specifically? How dare I put said milk back in the refrigerator after she fell asleep instead of leaving it to warm on her dresser overnight. My mistake. Twenty seconds later, we’re in a full-blown meltdown and it’s not yet 8 am.

My wife and I went through our usual tactics, ignoring, bargaining, moaning, and yes, a door did slam. I was dressed with the bed made by the time I wandered down the hall with enough readiness to confront the dairy-demon with its hooks in my daughter.

The summer before my senior year in high school I experienced my first panic attack. The feeling snuck up on me, slowly at first, like a tap on the shoulder from the grim reaper. I tried watching TV, opening windows, cooking, but as the hours passed, my breath shortened, my mind clouded, and I couldn’t walk through the house unconvinced I wasn’t about to die. I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t want to be alone. I grabbed my keys and drove the 10 minutes to my mom’s work, faked a smile with the receptionist, and headed for the break room. Between take-out sauce packets and cans of Slim-Fast I frantically scanned the refrigerator for something that would stop the shaking as I melted onto the tiled floor, where my mother found me minutes later, spread eagle with my back to the crisper eating cubes of stolen cheese while her coworkers stepped politely over my legs like psychotic roadkill. My mother quietly picked me up, walked me to her car, sat me in the passenger seat, knelt beside me, and like any good toddler who’d finally gotten their parents’ attention, I began to cry.

I’m raising a Pisces, which means every emotion mounts like a tidal wave at her back, and any resistance, desertion, or attempts to lure her ashore with reason or impatience will be met with the plunge of her triton into my hardwood floors. Without at least two cups of coffee, there’s no chance my wife dives in, so she heads below deck to prep breakfast while I lunge for the helm.

My father has a thousand sayings, most of which belong on T-shirts in gift shops where tourists buy keychains and moose pajamas. A favorite of mine is, “Be the pier, not the ocean.” As I walk into her room, my daughter’s eyes are puffy, her hair is in a teased halo around her face, and the snot that was dripping from her nose has been wiped onto her cheek.

Why is this happening? This can’t be about milk. I’m so over this. Don’t give in, she just wants to win. Ugh, I’m leaving if she can’t get it together. Is she sick? This is such a power struggle. Maybe I should just go until she calms down. Her room is a mess. We’re going to be late for school. Should I frame that picture? I’m leaving the milk in here overnight next time. OK, she’s still crying. I’m done.

I walked out of her room.

She ran after me, crying louder, her voice bouncing with every step.

You’re making it worse. You know how to calm her. Be with her. Breathe with her. Calm her down. Be her mom. Be the pier.

I stopped in front of the laundry room, took a deep breath, knelt down, and put my hand on her chest. I was quiet. I kept breathing, consciously keeping myself calm as I imagined a white light illuminating her heart, pouring down through the crown of her skull, enveloping her body, and soaking her soul. I moved my hands from her heart to her head, to her belly, and back. I breathed, in and out, in and out. I held onto the image of the light and slowly, between tiny moans, felt her breathing steady, watched her tears dry, and within minutes, she was draped over my shoulder as I rubbed her back, swaying side to side like the gentle rocking of a happy sea.

The ocean was calm. The clouds separated. We walked downstairs and I lifted the blinds over the  kitchen table where a small glass of milk sat next to a plate of toast. The sun poured in. She ate the toast first.

There you go. See, you know what you’re doing. 

Hardly.

But you calmed her down, see.

Yeah, you’re right, she is calm now.

I knew you could do it.

How did you know?

Because the ocean, as fierce as can be, must still look up to see the pier.