"I WANT A CAKE POP!!!" His voice was downright shrill, and seemed to reverberate throughout the store (or maybe it was just reverberating in my head?). It started innocently enough, I can assure you. A trip to Target, the promise of a cake pop for best listeners and cooperators. But you never really know, do you, when things are going to go off the rails, as they so clearly did that day. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
Sometimes I bribe my kids with sugar. There, I said it. Maybe bribe is too strong a word? Periodically, when I REALLY need the day to go smoothly, I will enthusiastically tell my children that if they're the very best listeners and cooperate extremely well, I will get them a (insert sugar-laden item here). The most successful incentive thus far is a cake-pop from Starbucks. Those sugary treats were once only reserved for the days that they (oh the horror) got shots. A cake-pop from Starbucks will make the sting of a D-TAP disappear in the time it takes to open the door and see those sweet treats in the display case. And since there just happens to be a Starbucks at the hospital/clinic where we receive nearly all our medical care, well, for the parent having just endured 20 minutes of two children screaming (the anticipation of a shot is roughly 27 times worse than the actual shot itself) it seems a sign from above that, at least in this instance, the ingestion of so much sugar is understandable. Eventually, the cake-pop transformed from a treat on shot days to "the ultimate treat." If you earned a cake pop, it was a good day, and that's where we find ourselves in this story. Mama needed a good day.
Let me set the stage a little by saying that I don't have a lot of experience with public tantrums. I can't remember my daughter ever having had one, but my son has had exactly three now, and they are all burned in my memory, if for no other reason than the shock elicited by each of the three. The first was when he was almost 2, at the zoo in Columbia, SC. We were near the elephant enclosure and he wanted an ice cream, to which we said no (actually, what we said was that we would love to get some ice cream, after the zoo). He literally stopped and looked around, seeming to deliberately survey his options, before carefully getting down on his stomach and flailing his arms and legs while screaming that he wanted an ice cream. It was so comical and surprising that lovingly acknowledging his feelings ("I can see you're upset that mommy said we have to wait to get an ice cream.") and helping him relax ("Let's take a deep breath together to help us calm down.") were easy tasks.
The second tantrum was at Target. The consummate helper, my sweet boy wanted to carry a package that was larger than he was through the parking lot. As I reminded him that the rule was that we hold hands in the parking lot, and that meant I would need to carry the package, he dissolved into tears and threw himself down on the sidewalk. So, there we sat, together. I held his hand as he cried, my sweet girl rubbed his back, and we both tried valiantly to validate his feelings. People walked around us, staring and snickering, but the importance of both the lesson being learned and support to my wee one were not lost and so, we sat.
And now, this. My sweet babes were about to turn four, and for the purpose of party preparation, a trip to Target was in order. I love Target, a fact I cannot stress deeply enough. It seems, somehow, to be a haven for mamas who need to breathe. I see lots of these mamas whilst strolling the aisles. We give each other knowing smiles and raise our Starbucks cups as if in an act of solidarity, a silent message conveying, "We made it." But this day was different and, as with many days that end up like this, it started with a single decision.
Walking into the store, my phone rang. It was my brother, with whom I don't get to speak nearly often enough. As it turned out, he had news to share, and once that conversation had begun it was not one from which I wanted to extricate myself. And so I did something I had quite literally never done. I let my children walk in Target. This, of course, was the pivotal moment, the key decision that sent us from what could have been a lovely day to what happened next.
Looking back on it now, I see my children were simply doing what I had modeled for them over the course of many trips to a number of different stores. Picking something up, surveying it, and either putting it away or putting it in the cart. The difference, of course, was that my children were new to this kind of freedom, and not going off a list (though, to be clear, we were indeed looking for something specific) they were haphazardly making their way through the aisles. And they loved, and wanted, everything. "Mama, I think I'm going to buy this today," said my sweet girl, as she put item after item in the cart. "Mama," my darling boy would ask, while holding up a pair of shorts, or pants, or a shirt obviously meant for a teenager, "is this the right size?" I was torn. If I put them in the cart, I would have to hang up the phone, but if I could gently encourage them to look without touching, to leave hanging items on the rack and shelves unmolested, they could continue to walk and I, to talk. Clearly, I made the wrong choice. Parenting is tough, sometimes.
I, finally realizing we couldn't go on, told my brother that I absolutely had to go. He understood, of course, but by that point we had gone too far. By that point, the kids were intoxicated with their newfound ability to touch whatever item caught their fancy, to feel those things that called to them, and to move in a direction opposite that of their watchful mama. And so, I reigned them in. My sweet girl didn't mind, in fact, seemed to relish the opportunity to rest and reset after the frenzy of unanticipated activity. She almost seemed to melt into the basket of the cart as she said, "Mama, that was fun." But my boy, oh my sweet boy. He kicked. He screamed. He hit. And then he asked, with tears in his eyes, if he could still have his cake pop. The answer, of course, given in the most calm of mama voices, was "No, not today. Boys who hit and kick their mama do not get a cake pop." And then it began.
"I. WANT. A. CAKE. POP!!!!" It wasn't screamed just once, or even twice, but over and over and OVER. He was relentless. I'm a big believer that once you, as an adult, join the chaos, you have lost. So I was calm and finished our shopping, part of which was done very quickly online (thank you Amazon Prime). But the screaming did not stop, and neither did the stares of the other shoppers. As we checked out and walked to the car, the screaming continued. As I got the kids strapped into their car seats, the screaming continued. As we began our drive home, the screaming continued. And then, silence. They had both fallen asleep. We got home and I sat, with the car running to keep us all cool, in the driveway. I read the news on my phone as they slept and then, as quickly as it had ended, it began again. "I. WANT. A. CAKE. POP!!!!" Yes, he woke up screaming, as if the 30 minutes of quiet had never occurred.
Thankfully, a friend came over and said, with a calm and hint of humor I both love and applaud, "You should put some oils on that boy." Ah, how did I not think of that? A swipe of Vetiver Oil down his spine and a popsicle to help cool his overheated body and emotions, and that was it. It was over. It is a day we all laugh about now, even my son, and it's the best reminder I have that we, as parents, drive so much of what happens in the minds and bodies of our littles.
Mamas, sometimes we as parents have to give in to what our kids really need. Not what they WANT, what they NEED. The giving in, in this instance, was not about letting my son kick and hit and still get a cake-pop. The giving in was in me putting what I wanted to the side and more actively parenting when they needed it. I get it, we need a break sometimes. We do. But there are times like this, when our kids are tired (it was almost nap time, for instance), when they are overwhelmed with new freedoms (going it solo at Target, as an example), when they are hungry (we all carry snacks, right?), or experiencing an emotion bigger than what they can handle alone, that we need to set everything else aside and be present. This means that sometimes we have to get off the phone, or tell our friends we have to go home, or cancel that coffee or lunch or play date with a friend.
Our presence, our full presence, is integral to how our kiddos learn to relate to not only us, but to the rest of the world. When we show our kids their importance to us, by being fully present (and patient, loving and kind) in their difficult moments (and even in their not-so-difficult moments), they are better able to navigate their worlds and emotions. And isn't that what this parenting gig is all about? We're preparing our kids for "being" successfully in the world without us. So get out there, Mamas, and be with your kiddos. And maybe, just because, treat them to a cake-pop. Unless they kick. Hitters and kickers don't get cake-pops. Just sayin'.