The first time my toddler threw a tantrum, her head spun 360 degrees, flames replaced her pupils, the walls rumbled and she chanted a satanic curse in Latin. Well, at least that’s how I remember it.
I wouldn’t give her p-o-p-c-o-r-n. It was tucked away, high in the top cupboard, and as much as I pretended not to know what Joey wanted, she knew I was holding out. Her face went red and her lungs erupted.
At 18 months old, it was the first time she’d complained about anything for longer than a few minutes. Her crying turned into screaming. Her sooky cuddle warped into an awful whiplash out of my arms, followed by wild back arches and body throws all over the floor. She wouldn’t be picked up, let alone touched. The tantrum was in full throttle. Ten minutes in and we were both crying.
I offered her everything; the popcorn, a dummy, my breast, Netflix, my phone, a $50 note, I’d have let her smash a Fabergé egg if we had one handy. But the screaming continued. We walked around the block, both in tears. We walked around again. I wanted to scream, but she was doing enough of that for the both of us. Eventually, I put her on my bed and walked away. After a couple of minutes of crying, she lay down and fell asleep.
The whole tantrum lasted close to an hour.
I felt useless. I lay on the couch and cried, calling my partner at work to check if our toddler was indeed correct, and I was, as the whole neighbourhood had heard, the worst mum in Australia.
Isaac insisted it was normal, but he couldn’t be trusted; he hadn’t seen the daggers in her eyes. I texted mum and minutes later my phone buzzed as the family network went into advice overdrive. Mum suggested I put her in the bath. An aunty suggested picking her up and dangling her upside down. My cousin sent a message of solidarity: “My only advice is bribe or distract – don’t change their mind, they’re bloody stubborn and you’ll always lose.”
It was possibly the most awful hour of my life as a new parent, and I’d had plenty of sleepless nights, bouts of childcare conjunctivitis and an episiotomy without pain relief. But that hour, home alone with a tantruming toddler, took the cake.
The day would surely come up in future counselling sessions. Hers and mine. Never had she done something that felt so personal; she hated me. Never had I felt so useless.
When I was pregnant, people warned of tantrums, but no one said how soul-destroying they could be. No one told me the warbling cries of a newborn turn into that of a small human. It was a new, mature pitch that made me simultaneously languish and lactate.
And suddenly, she could bite, scratch and maintain eye contact.
I felt as if I’d been hurled abuse from a stranger or been in a road-rage incident. This tiny adult had gone straight for my throat. If she could talk, I know she’d be calling me every swearword in the book. If she was my size, I’m sure she’d have me in a headlock. Instead, she erupted. Those “big feelings” spilled out.
With the help of some half-read articles and advice from fellow parents, I started to figure out what was going on in Joey’s brain. Of course it must be annoying to want popcorn and not understand why mum is withholding. Reason and logic just haven’t worked their way into those little brains yet. And I’m no stranger to a good tantrum too.
The moment I’m annoyed, I feel a pit of anger in my stomach that usually expels itself as a three-page text (that I then delete), a heated conversation with my partner, a run, a Magnum Ego or a series of deep breaths. Poor Joey doesn’t even have a phone, let alone the ability to write a passive-aggressive essay to me about how withholding popcorn is akin to child abuse.
After that first tantrum, Joey woke up from her sleep as happy as can be. I had my prepared apology, while she seemed completely over it. There have been plenty of tantrums since. One at the shops, plenty at the dog park, and to my relief, at least two with my partner while I’ve been out.
My coping mechanism now is simply knowing they end.
I’ve trawled every inch of the internet in search of the simple solution to stop a toddler’s fury, and am convinced none exist. The idea of sitting a tantruming Joey down and explaining to her calmly why she can’t have popcorn would be like trying to put a fire out with a wet wipe.
Knowing tantrums are normal doesn’t make them less awful; but it does make me in awe of the parents before me who’ve dealt with tantrums without screaming themselves.
Molly Glassey is Guardian Australia’s assistant editor, audio and visual
