- When my bubbly toddler hit developmental changes at 2 ½, she suddenly began throwing tantrums.
- My husband and I couldn't agree on how to handle it. We argued, and her tantrums continued.
- A friend sent me a book with techniques that work for us, and soon our daughter's tantrums ceased.
Neither my husband nor I had tantrums. Grady is of the boomer generation and grew up in the Smoky Mountains. Being tough was a prerequisite for survival, respect for authority started young, and everybody in town could impose it.
I grew up in New York City in the 1980s. Tantrums weren't in my nature. So, despite my husband's previous experience taking parenting classes as a single dad decades ago, and my 30 years of teaching ages 5 and up, our daughter Violet's terrible-tweens rocked us.
Violet's the unexpected bonus from starting our lives over together at ages 56 and 40. People told us how lucky we were, commenting on her joyful disposition. Then, just like the stats predicted, when she turned 2 ½, huge physical, intellectual, and emotional growth spurts arrived, along with tantrums. That was four months ago; we've been in a period of trial and error since then.
I researched online and regretted it
Violet is overly logical like her daddy, so it was startling when she'd throw herself to the floor, making demands, and shouting "No!" to things she'd asked for moments ago, like popsicles or bubbles.
At night, I dove into online rabbit-holes that I knew wouldn't help but couldn't stop exploring: "How to teach toddlers self-regulation?" "Is the two-minute timeout rule really viable?" and, perhaps most embarrassingly, one titled, "How to tell if tantrums are normal?" even though Grady and I are both neurodiverse and know "normal" isn't a metric.
Most articles alarmed me with "red flags." Reddit was more good-humored and comforting. I adapted the 12-step recovery acronym H.A.L.T., which stands for "hungry, angry, lonely, or tired," to distinguish meltdowns (requiring care) from tantrums (requiring boundaries). I wish I'd slept instead.
During playgroups, I'd ask other moms about tantrums, but according to them, their kids just occasionally melted down when hungry or over-tired, making me wonder, where were all the kids the internet was obsessed over?
Our techniques failed and stressed our marriage
My husband tried longer timeouts, explanations, and walking away (she followed). I tried teaching her meditation, which she enjoyed, but not enough to practice mid-tantrum. My suggestion that she needed a hug inspired her to quit shouting "NOOOO!" in favor of "I NEED A HUG!!" but didn't ultimately change her tantrums. I began to worry I was contributing to a negative attention spiral, and that giving her any kind of attention while acting out would be seen as a reward for misbehaving and cause her to continue the same behavior.
Those four months were exhausting, strained our marriage, and led to arguments. I told Grady his years working in rehabs with addicts distorted his perspective. He retorted that easygoing families were their biggest enablers. We couldn't agree on what "normal" toddler development was. When Violet shouted "NO!" I'd undermine my husband's responses, saying it was important for little girls to learn to assert themselves.
Until a showdown in a playground: After playing for hours, we had to leave for my work meeting. Violet threw herself into a mudhole, screaming. The other moms watched sympathetically. I knew it was time for a consequence.
I got into my car and pretended to drive away.
Violet came running, but I felt something between us snap.
We found alternatives that work for us
A New York friend with college-age kids sent us Harvey Karp's, "The Happiest Toddler On The Block." Despondently, I paged through during bathtimes, underlining parts for Grady. As a chess teacher, I taught children from kindergarten through high school, always connecting with them by treating them like little adults.
I realized I'd inherited that from my mom, who refused to talk down to kids. I was dubious about Karp's "Play the boob," or "Feed the meter" techniques to avoid tantrums, which basically suggest pretending to be goofy or clumsy to make them laugh, and making sure to give them small moments with you throughout the day, respectively. But when I accidentally dropped the soap, Violet laughed so hard I did it again. She giggled so much, she peed.
Karp's suggestion of narrating what Violet was doing in cave-speak at eye-level: "Me no room!" made her scream louder. That night, we tried another technique, recounting her wins and trials of the day, then going over expectations for tomorrow. She wound her arms around my neck, saying, "You're my best girl."
Saturday, I "fed the meter": Every hour (or three) for five minutes, I gave Violet my undivided goofiest attention. To my surprise, fewer interruptions followed. But before my class, she grew stormy. After five minutes of pretending she was hot lava and getting chased by her around the kitchen island, she voluntarily went into her room.
While cooking supper, instead of responding to overtures of playtime with "Not right now," I could almost always fake-barf over "stinky feet" or do a quick game of hide-and-seek.
These "pockets of fun" — my term — make all of us more willing to listen, be flexible, and respect rules. The more I invest in them daily (like a savings account in the bank, Karp says), the richer our relationships grow. Violet turned three last Friday. We've barely had a tantrum in months.
These 'pockets of fun' help me, too
Understanding play can happen in short bursts, and not just large blocks, helps me be more playful and relaxed, lessening my anxiety. Grady feels brighter, too, though he swears it's the weather. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but if I respond from my most present place, chances of it being a more positive one are higher.
