We are back in the realm of tantrums. It is a dark land for my son. No toys, kisses or comfort reside there. The din is full-speed-engines over cymbals. Vocals and emotion escalate like the “Star Wars” speed-of-light effect: Vrooooosh—white flashes—there goes T, to confounded private orbits Mama cannot reach.
So I wait for him to fall back to Earth. Sometimes this waiting takes place in the middle of a store aisle, after I’ve told him it’s time to leave the premises without the item he has requested we “buy go home”. (Don’t get me wrong—I WANT to buy him the Dora/Diego 12 pack DVD set, the $40 Buzz Lightyear robot doll, I WANT to give him every suitcase with wheels and popout handles he rolls around the store and throw in the triple-D-cup bras yanked from hangers and which he really wants me to have, even though of course I can’t wear them—I WANT to buy him Venice, Italy, with swaying gondolas. But, come on…)
I wait: In a park after the pack of kids he inserted himself into leaves the premises before we do. I wait: In Costco after I’ve just told him we’ll pay for our things and THEN get a hot dog. I wait: In our living room after I’ve explained we are out of Triple A batteries and so can’t restart the Mini Monster Truck With Bitchin’ Lightshow. I wait, my head lingering in the freezer, after he’s just hit lightspeed because I’ve told him we’re out of popsicles.
I am reminded that I must never think we are totally over a phase, like tantrums—must never wipe my brow and whistle “phew” because early-morning-wakings are a thing of the past (ha ha), must never under or overestimate my son. He understands and absorbs every second and overload kicks in and either sends him into lightspeed, or, alternatively, produces a fresh, astonishing sentence, such as: “Mama, guess what? Moon is (gibberish) and the (gibberish) and (name of toddler friend) and doggies birthdays with nightlights. Tell Dadda when home for deeener. Right on, mama!” (And here, after he’s singled it out from his little fingers, I’m given an ecstatic thumbs-up.)
“Why, absolutely tell Dadda,” I reply, matching his thumbs-up with one of my own, then wiping my eyes with an old, dried-up baby-wipe that happens to be within reach. “My wuvvy baby. Er, I mean, The Force is with you, T.”
A few tantrums daily—a few leaps for mankind.
