The Mommy Files
Notes from a Tantrum
Benji is a good boy. I just wanted to say that, right off the bat, because as you read this, you might form other impressions of my lovely little boy. He is mercurial, and I imagine it must be difficult for a three-year-old to always maintain his charismatic “Mr. Fabulous” personality. And, of course, how would we recognize what a great kid he is if we never experienced the tougher moments? So here’s what happened…

Hindsight being 20/20, it probably would have been best to just stay home from the library that morning. Benji had been overtired from our vacation in Florida, and he had kept Marina up with relentless fussing the night before. But, it being Wednesday and all, Storytime must go on.
So I pack the kids into the car, struggle with the carseat restraints, unload two fidgety three-year-olds, and sit on the radiator at Crossroads Library while Miss Franje explains the intrinsic value of the letter U. (Umbrella, Up, and, to the delight of the children, Underpants.)
“Okay kids. Let’s go,” I say. We had stamps on hands, an Angelina DVD and the book “Some Dogs Do”. It was time to go.
“But not yet,” pipes Benji. “ I wanna play on the computer.”
“No computer today. We don’t have time. Mommy has to get to work.”
His lips tremble. His eyes narrow. His cheeks appear to slide off the face. Oh, no. He’s gonna blow……
“But I wanna play on the computer. NOOOOOOO!”
Great. A library tantrum. Isn’t that the best kind? I grab Benji by the arm and simple say to Marina, “Hand.” She complies, and we walk briskly out of the library, all the while Benji wailing “Noooooooooo. I don’t wanna go.”
As happens with these two, Marina is as mild as cream cheese while her brother has his tantrum. She cheerfully looks up at me with an angel’s face and asks, “Mommy, why is Benji having a tantrum?” I know this is a rhetorical question; that she is just showing me that she can play the cherub to his demon spawn.
Ah, the parking lot at a crowded mall. I have the boy’s wrist now, as he screams and struggles against me. This is the point where any sane mother would pick up the child, march out to the car, and wrangle him into his seat. However, after a month-long coughing bout, my ribs had become so sore that I could no longer push, pull, carry or lift a thing. Certainly not a thirty pound child. Benji was well aware of this, and had used my impotence to his advantage.
The car is what? Forty steps away, maybe thirty five if we take long strides. We can do this. Step by step, I tug him through the busy lot.
We are almost at the car when Benji has a sudden screeching outburst. He throws his body vigorously to the ground, and spins like Michael Jackson on a breakdancing spree. Twisting out of my grasp he makes a break for it. I race after him, pulling Marina, but she is unable to keep up. “Grab my pantleg,” I shout to her as she stands paralyzed with panic. We chase Benji a few steps further, and I throw my body on top of him, pulling Marina along with me. I have tackled my son in a parking lot. My ribs are throbbing. This is going well.
The next moments are a blur as my sense of mortification has, mercifully, erased some of the smaller details. But somehow I get Benji into the car with the door shut. Not, of course, before a helpful passerby on his way to his business lunch “Tsk, Tsks” me.
Benji knows I don’t have the ability to wrestle him into his carseat. Standing on the carseat, he makes it clear that he has still not let go of his intense desire (which has risen to the level of an imperative) to play on the computer. I let Marina in the other side, and then open the driver’s door. Quickly, I roll down the driver’s window a bit. I am trying to reason with a hysterical three-year-old through a two-inch crack. “Benji,” I try to say in a reassuring voice that I can hear is tinged with hysteria, “Benji , it’s time to get into your carseat.” Now, I’m suddenly yelling, “I said SIT DOWN in that carseat.” My “Mommy Dearest” tactic clearly does not work.
He screams louder. He bangs his fists against the window. He bites his sister, and I let her out of the car to stand beside me. It’s a standoff.
I toy with the idea of taking him back to the library, but I know this is “crazy-talkin”. I toy with the idea of asking a stranger to wrestle him into the carseat, but I imagine that would somehow wind up in a lawsuit, or a 911 call at the very least.
Marina and I take a few steps away. We can wait him out. I hear the sobs die down and I walk back towards the car. The moment he sees me, he wails his new mantra; “I wanna go back in the library.”
Marina clutches my slacks. I grab my cellphone and call my husband, Steve. I don’t know what I expect him to do. I just want to hear his voice.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks helplessly.
“I don’t know. Come here? Put him in his carseat?” I suggest, knowing that it’s not realistic.
Now that I know I’m in this alone, I rest my head on the top of the car, and choke on a small sob. It’s been 45 minutes, and I need to get home to get ready for work. I take a deep breath and lift my head. I can handle this, I think. I’m a grownup.
Just then, a woman gets out of a car nearby. She hears the screaming and shakes her head sympathetically. “We’ve all been there,” she says.
And this calms me a little. This unconventional Sisterhood of Tantrum Survivors. This is just a stage, really. Isn’t it? Marina went through it. He’ll get through it. Then it will be something else, like, The Electric Scooter Purchase, The Car Key Trials, or The You Absolutely Will Not Date That Drug Addict Girl Again Episode.
Miraculously, he has climbed into the carseat, and begun fastening the top buckle. I drive home. It seems I’ve won, but I still feel crummy. I yelled. I lost my cool. I forgot all of the “What to Expect the Toddler Years” advice of firm but calm reactions.

This morning Marina had a tantrum right before nap. She was upset because she decided that she didn’t want the Purell after she had already rubbed it into her hands. I took Benji to his room while Steve took care of Marina. Once Benji and I are alone in the bedroom, it’s his turn to show me he’s the “Good One”. Benji runs his hand through my hair, and then traces a gentle line down my cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too,” I said. I know I’m being manipulated, but it sure beats a tantrum.