Today I endured an endless tantrum. Okay, maybe ten minute, but have you ever listened to a kid scream for TEN MINUTES? It’s forever. And when it’s your kid, it’s a tad bit longer. The source of the endless tantrum? K was dumpster diving. It started out with a little eyes-only investigation with her friend. Pick-your-battles parent that I am, I watched without letting myself get too bothered. Parks are petri dishes anyway. I told them to keep their hands out of the trash. I might as well have given them a written invitation. The next thing we knew, both girls were dumpster diving. I sighed and told them to stop, at which point K backed off obediently. Then she picked up her cup, by the straw, with her Lord-knows-what-she-just-touched hands. I groaned and told her to come over so that I could wash her cup and hands, at which point K began to scream. And scream. And scream. Scream while I washed her cup. Scream while I washed her hands. Scream on the grassy area where I put her to finish her tantrum. Talk about dedication. After ten minutes I finally walked over, asked her if she was finished, and then picked up the sobby, snotty, snuffly mess and cuddled her for the rest of the play date. Because I wanted her to wash her hands (and cup) after sticking them in the trash. The nerve.
Clearly having no understanding of the limits of my patience, she stops in her tracks on the way to the car and moans, “Me not want go home. Me want swing!” Right. Poor toddlers. The world must be such an immense spread of puzzle pieces, all getting picked up and sorted and lost and then found and more often than not lost again, in the lengthy process of putting ourselves together. Some times we seem to have blissful days with lots of connected edges.Today was full of middles.
On the plus side, I had the oddest thing to keep me distracted during her fit: a spider in my pocket pack of tissues. Really. I’m not sure how he ended up there, except that perhaps he has a cold like everyone else this time of year. It took us a long time to negotiate the getting out, just long enough to endure a two year old’s wrath.