Ode to the Tantrum

When I first began to experience tantrums as a parent (yes, I mean the girls', not my own), my curiosity was piqued. I was trying to imagine how my own parents had handled the wailing meltdown, the kicking and pounding, the anguished sobbing till the small red face is streaming with snot.

I called my mom. "Do you remember what you guys did when I was Talia's age and threw tantrums?"

"Well, I don't think you really had temper tantrums."

"What?"

"When you were little and got angry, you used to go to your room and draw pictures about it. I don't really remember you throwing fits."

I tried to imagine Talia winding up for a primo-meltdown, then choosing to draw a picture instead. My mom's revelation either showed that I had been the emotionally healthiest child on the planet, or it was the most f-ed up thing I had ever learned about myself. I realized the answer was probably B, and it explained a lot about what was wrong with me most of my life.

Therefore, like a paraplegic watching runners in the 50-yard dash, I have developed a voyeur's admiration for my daughters' tantrums. The unselfconscious, immediate transformation of frustration and disappointment into pure rage is both shocking and fascinating. Unlike the slow-motion, invisible game of badminton that many of us are socialized to play with our emotions--don't get angry; wait, think, analyze, understand it from another point of view... then die of cancer--tantrums are like pinball.

Doll is gone? BAM!
Wait 10 seconds till juice?? BAM-BAM!!
You said NO?! Game over...DING DING DING!

Then, usually, as quickly as they come, they're over. Forgotten. Move on.

Amazing!

Although having your kid collapse screaming into a gel-like substance on the floor is technically not fun, Nadav and I manage to sort of embrace this "phase" because we each have ulterior motives. Personally, I want to learn how to throw a better tantrum myself. Minus the snot, perhaps. Nadav wants to believe that some shred of their instinctive indignation will survive through grade school, tweendom, and into their dating years, causing them to, if accosted in a convertible by a horny date, bash the boy's head in with a rock. Did I mention my husband is part Greek?

Both of us take comfort in the idea, the hope, that each of these little female selves is growing a hardened core that will not question itself, will not hesitate, when it matters most.