Confessions of a Facebook Failure FLASHBACK: Year 2 Day 12

I am drowning in grading a flood of finals! But the Type A (alright…A-) in me has a need to adhere to my once-a-day-post commitment. So I am cheating with some favorite flashbacks from years past. Here is one…

I just survived a Level 5, Red Alarm, Off-the-Chart, monumental meltdown in the middle of Target. I’m not saying I deserve a Purple Heart people, but I sure wouldn’t mind a smile.

Here is the scenario, we HAVE to go shopping. Believe it or not, a trip to a sweets and treats crack house with my 3 rabid addicts, pre-nap, in a busy breeding ground for judgmental eyes, is NOT my idea of meditation, or even entertainment. But we soldier mamas battle on, in our humble quest for yogurt and apple sauce, and some indulgences (sad, but accurate word choice here) for Daddy’s lavish birthday.

So when the first battle over choice of briefs for a paternal present ensued, I was armed and ready with wise words and redirection. We even survived the chocolate aisle in a pursuit for some dark bites to be bowed, by strategically sharing the berry basket for a forbidden pre-purchase distraction. But with only moments to spare before the bomb was ignited, my battle plans were foiled when we were surprise attacked by every mama warrior’s biggest enemy, the casual acquaintance mama, WITHOUT her kids. I immediately went on high alert, hiding the open box of blueberries, and attempting to hide the drooling, snarling beasts I had pouring out of every crack of my cart, to no avail. What could have been a battle just death-defying, but successful(?) enough to be brag worthy, was immediately turned into a fragmented mess beyond repair. That momentary loss of mama-focus, that temporary lapse in superhuman intention…They smelled the fear. My fear. My insecurity. My need to please the stranger, with a portrait of motherhood that is simply…not.

And that was it. Crying. No, not crying….wailing. Kicking. No, not kicking, lashing. Screaming. No, not screaming. Howling.

Here we were. 2 items from the checkout line, basket full, and this.

Thank goodness for the experts roaming the aisles of Target, the apparent researchers and celebrated theorists in the field of parenting that have humbled themselves to the frozen food section of a discount store for their mid-afternoon sessions.

The first appeared with some amazing insight that was clearly filled with the wisdom of behavioral science. She spoke directly to the convulsing mass attached to my still walking leg, as she sang, “Ooooooh (note the intentional extra o’s)! Poor baby.” Apparently, it was obvious that I had fastened him to my fumbling feet as some sort of torture technique for my own amusement. I was surely to blame for his misery. “Do you want some candy,” pulling some lint covered M and Ms from her therapist’s coat. I politely smiled at the well-intentioned, visiting early childhoood expert, and declined the offer. The whole, rewarding meltdown behavior, while declining a reinforcer for the self-controlled siblings/infusing sugar into a tired toddler/candy from strangers/questionable sanitation, was sweet and temporarily tempting, but I decided to battle on sugar-free, against expert advice.

Of course, the frenzy continued. 12:30, pre-lunch, pre-nap, distracted mama, denied candy from a stranger, toddlers in Target. Surprising? For some reason it seemed to surprise the next developmental psychologist I encountered. A male (Not necessarily noted for sexist intentions. Just noted). Leaning in with a sweet smile, he shared, “I’d slap him so hard across that screaming mouth, he would never try that again,” followed by a subtle wink to assert his gentle spirit. Why thank you kind sir. Thank you. Your wisdom is well-rooted in the research of Maslow, among others, and should be featured prominently in the pages of Psychology Today. I can imagine it now, Publicly Face-Slapping Children: A Lost Science by Random Childless Single. I politely smiled and thanked him for the free session, and moved ahead, adhering to even the wildest of Social Services standards, all the way to check out.

There I met my final, friendly foe of the fit, the most subtle and common variety of floating experts among the super market circuit. Leaning in, the loving, yet long little-one-less mama, reminiscing on a tumultuous-less time in her memory, that may likely be more Hallmark than history, sweetly whispered, “You poor thing. The one and only time my son through a tantrum in a store, I turned right around and just left. He never had another one again.” Looking at my basket full of bread and butter basics and a few pathetic little presents to be bought with their own pennies, I considered her well-meant wisdom. So all I have to do is starve my hungry, over-stimulated, over-tired, toddler and deny his unknowing father of his Target brand birthday presents, and he will NEVER have another tantrum again? And the other two, calm children (who have somehow survived me all of these years, without transforming into complete savages) will be completely accepting of this no food, no purchasing their hand-picked presents for their daddy with their piggy bank pennies clause, bathing in the gratitude of leaving their good intentions behind, only to watch me battle their flailing brother into a seemingly shrinking car seat, who has now somehow developed superhuman strength and a flexibility known only by Gumby, allowing him to wiggle through my choke hold with repeated success? I weigh my options, smile politely, and opt to gingerly move the now primitive sounding monkey surgically attached to my leg to the finish line.

It is just then that I realize I had chosen the perfect lane for my perils. A natural observation lab for these all-knowing onlookers. Really? Today, of all days, you need to card me, a 35-going-on-70-year-old looking-mother of 3, buying Goldfish crackers and gray-covering hair dye. Really? You need to call over the manager to make sure you are charging me correctly for the bananas? Really? Charge me for the organic. Heck, charge me for the Gluten-Free, Dairy-Free, Ten-x-the-Price-Free, whatever. Please, just let me escape this looking glass. So when she began to oh-so-sweetly, meticulously fold the underwear, assuring symmetrical creases, deaf to the serenade of screeches surrounding her, I smiled politely and bagged my own briefs, subtly sharing the surprising news that I was actually in a bit of a hurry. Please note that the innocent check-out lady likely had no suspicion of the fire she had ignited with her OCD-inspired good intentions. I was completely civilized in my state of panicked humiliation.

And as we left the bright lights of price checks and the chaos of crashing carts, and I allowed myself the first few seconds to breathe since the battle began, much to my surprise, the beast released HIMSELF. He didn’t need a chocolate (although I might admit to have had moments of soothing my savages with sugar) or a public beating (although I might admit to the evil death stare with eyes of equivalent intentions) or a subtle starvation (although I might admit to missed meals, disguised by the dusty bag of Cheerios I found in the back of the cupboard). He didn’t even need to be picked up to please the voiceless stranger who I am quite sure just wanted him to stop by any means necessary. (I am so sincerely sorry silent stranger. If my shame could be measured in apologies, we would surely be even.) He needed quiet. He needed calm. He needed the natural consequence packaged up in patience. He needed me. I’m his expert. We’re their experts mamas.

And as my two year old terror (at times) still shaking from the severity of the scene independently murmured, “I sorry Mama. I love you Mama. I want you Mama. I wait next time Mama. I sorry,” without a prompt coated in sugar or a slap of submission, a real researcher willing to ask questions, camouflaged with a coat of offspring herself, approached me with this, “Oh my goodness! He is so sweet. How did you get him to do that?” To which I replied, “I didn’t. He did. I just survived the battle here,” and changed the mood of our whole little world with some much-needed laughter. And then she knighted me with this, “I totally understand. Good job mama!” I smiled. Not politely this time, but in relief and sincere gratitude for her compassionate session.

She saw through the horrific scene, to see a two year old having a typical tantrum at Target, and a family who weathered the storm and somehow survived as a solid unit, and reminded me of that success. Sometimes I forget how little they are and yet how big their feelings are. They seem so monstrously big and their feelings seem so insignificantly small, when you are in it. Thank you fellow mama warrior for not sharing your stories of success at that exact moment, but sharing with me the compassion of transparency. Thank you from the deepest parts of mommyhood, for understanding.

Obviously, I am not an expert. Obviously! But I am a researcher. And I have researched the experts, and teach about the experts (to unsuspecting students who think I know what I am doing), and, more importantly, I’m out here in my own minefields, enough to know that regardless of what you do, toddlers are hard-wired for tantrums. This will not be our last tragic scene. I foresee a clear future of callouses earned from many, many sequels. And I am equally certain that we can navigate our way through these momentary insanities in different ways, with different views, and we will all survive unscathed, as long as it is all peppered in love. I am not the expert, but I’m the closest thing they’ve got. My children are simply the experiment of a mad scientist mama trying my best to “research” my way out of an epic explosion. You’ll have to check back in a few decades and see if we all made it out alive. I only hope that in future sessions, the well-intentioned experts, might swap their sessions for support. Smile at THAT mama at the check out stand. Help her get those groceries and go, or empower her with the magic of, “I understand.” And while I am aware that such wisdom wishers share their stories peppered in that same love that we all have for our tiny beasts (except for maybe that guy with the backhand), please-oh-please, unless you really are an expert in the field, please save your wisdom for your paid sessions.

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Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.