anatomy of a tantrum

It seems like a lot has happened over the last month, but I've been too tuckered out to blog about it, opting instead for earlier bedtimes.

Elias's great love has, sadly, switched from books to video. He especially likes surfing around the kids programs on Netflix or video clips at sesamestreet.org. Screentime is normally reserved as a special treat for Saturdays and an occasional weeknight, and in the mornings when getting ready to go. After school today we were doing well in the real world, looking for marshmallow sticks for his school trip tomorrow, visiting with the chickens, then making a pizza. Then he caught sight of my laptop, on, in the office and rushed over to load videos. I told him no, not until after dinner, when I'd watch something with him, which he glumly accepted and walked out. I went to take the trash out. When I returned, there he was at the computer, with Sesame Street loaded, looking very guilty. I reminded him I told him he couldn't play on the computer until after dinner (ignoring his hasty but heart-felt excuse that had something to do with Cookie Monster), and because he disobeyed, now he couldn't play on the computer at all tonight. It's not the first time this senario has played out, but tonight, Oh, the drama! He burst out crying, bawling, lamenting, hanging onto me...which went on for over an hour. I think that's a record. He'd get himself just under control, then after several seconds remember the "harsh"sentence visited upon him and start up all over again. When we sat down for dinner and I prayed, he tacked on, bitterly, "and THANK YOU for the computer and THANK YOU that Mom said I can't play on the computer tonight and is making me very, VERY upset! Amen." Then he told me "yes, I'm telling God on you." He abandoned that route when I reminded him that God wants us to obey our parents, and reverted to the cycle of bawling, catching his breath, asking again if he can play on the computer (with variations of wording, or proffered limitations to particular programs, or provisions, or justifications), objecting to the same, un-nuansed "no" answer, and then more sobbing. I probably could have stopped it by getting him to do something else, or refusing to let him "tantrum" in the kitchen where I was, or even ordering him to stop, but I wondered how he'd get over it himself. I was fascinated at how all-encompassing and deep-felt his disappointment was, far in excess of the happiness afforded a little computer time, and how much effort he expended in sustaining his anger. In the talking parts of the cycle, I was impressed how eloquently he voiced his assessment, objections, and attempted negotiations of the matter. I was pleased he never tried to ignore my ruling by sneaking off to play on the computer, nor did he act out his frustration; rather, he clung to me seeking comfort in his distress. So we cuddled and talked until he wore himself out. Meekly, still weeping, he got ready for bed, then fell deeply asleep on me after just one book. It was all said and done by 7:50. I bet tomorrow it'll be as if nothing happened, except (hopefully) a lesson learned.

Elias' tantrum was just so ridiculously overblown and unreasonable, at times I fought back a smile, but then it got me thinking: do I do the same thing? I'm upset and stressed about not being fairly paid at work, but I got myself into this situation, and it's clear that my reasoning, begging, and emotional stress aren't going to change their decision one whit--so what am I whining about? Why do I keep presenting ever-more-eloquent reasoning to a brick wall? I need to chill out, accept it, and move on a little bit wiser. Like Elias.