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THE MOTHERHOOD
By: Kate Cayanni | October 21, 2021
A few weeks ago, we took the kids to the zoo while visiting family on vacation. It was a hot day so the animals were not inclined to sit on display in the sun, and being outside was a bit tiring, but we were on an adventure.
We opted to take the kids on the miniature train ride through the zoo and set off to enjoy the sights. The kids loved hearing the choo-choo of the horn every time it made a crossing with a sidewalk, and pointing to the giraffes wandering by as we chugged along. An ostrich squawked “hello” much to their delight, as we rounded the bird’s house. We were having a good time.
As the train rolled back into the station at the conclusion of the ride, my son (22 months) looked crestfallen. I told him we needed to get off and he shook his head, repeating “Mas! Mas!” his pleas for “more” in Spanish (a word learned from his Nicaraguan nanny). I told him I was sorry, but it was someone else’s turn to ride the train and we needed to get off and see the elephants.
Alas, he shook his head, and planted himself firmly in the seat. Two-year-olds have every bit as much will as an adult and he had mustered all of his to stay put.
As I reached in to lift him out of the train car he contorted his body to avoid my reach. I brought in my reinforcement: Dad. His dad reached in, plucked him from the train car and what had been stubborn protest immediately exploded into a meltdown.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, his mouth open in a long shriek of despair as we walked away from the train and tried to find a place to regroup.
His dad changed his diaper, and he screamed and wailed the entire time. We offered him water—nope, that wouldn’t do it. We offered him snacks (this always works), he pushed them away. I carried him around and tried to distract him by pointing at interesting things, but he was not falling for any of it.
In my arms, he fought me. He gathered up my shirt, and in some instances my skin, in his small fists and squeezed with all his might, kicking and hitting my shoulders.
Frustrated, and mildly wounded, I put him in his stroller. We decided to try and walk it off. We headed for the elephants, and continued to offer him distractions, water and snacks. The five-minute walk felt like 20. People were staring. My son was not himself, flailing in the stroller, unable to settle, or even catch his breath. I finally parked the stroller in a shady spot, and sat on a bench facing him. I told the rest of the group to go see the elephants while I tried to see if I could get him to calm down and we were left alone to sort things out.
I put my hand out for him and he grabbed at it, trying to pull towards me. When I lifted him out of the stroller and he clung to me, still crying uncontrollably, and we rocked. He found my arms and pulled them around his little body tightly. I talked to him softly while he screamed no, no, no! When I patted his back, he grabbed my arm to hold it still. Without words he was telling me, just hold me. Be still. On and on he cried, shaking in my arms.
I have a 4-year-old, who was once a two-year-old. This was not my first rodeo. Tantrums happen. This one was bad—in fact it was the worst I’d actually seen from him, by far, but I knew what it was and I knew I’d see my little boy again if I could just get him to the other side of it. If I could just get him to eat something, have some water and get his breath.
I knew I’d see my little boy again if I could just get him to the other side of it. If I could just get him to eat something, have some water and get his breath.
I sat rocking him. 30 minutes had passed since we had gotten off that train and as I sat on that bench in the shade, a woman walked up to me. She leaned down and said, “I just want you to know that I’ve been watching you, and you are doing a great job.” She asked if anything had happened. I told her that he hadn’t wanted to get off the train and it had all gone downhill. She nodded and said that he would be alright and left me to keep riding this out with him.
I burst into tears.
Not from the tantrum, but in appreciation for the solidarity that another mother showed me. I had been so “in it” with the tantrum and the two-year-old that I hadn’t really even processed the stress of it all until that moment.
That little ‘mom nod’ to say, “I see you, and this shit is really hard sometimes,” was like a cleansing breeze over us on that hot day.
I had tears rolling down my cheeks now too, and as my son looked up at me, he touched my cheek and took a deep breath. I said, “Hi there, Sam. Would you like to see what we have here for you to eat?” He breathed again, a deep slow exhale, and said, “yeah,” and we opened the lunchbox to find something to eat and drink. He was drenched in sweat and red-faced, but he was back. And we went to see the elephants.
I’ve come to appreciate The Motherhood. This unofficial club we all join when we parent. The moms who talk about the real stuff, who see each other when we’re “in it” and offer support, or just a pat on the shoulder. And even more so, the moms who are able to make light of the situation.
To find the humor in parenting toddlers is definitely the best path to sanity.
To find the humor in parenting toddlers is definitely the best path to sanity.
So, this is all to say that I see you, moms. And keep the support coming, because it is hell out there. It means a lot.
Kate Cayanni is a mother to two toddlers, a lover of baking at home and handwritten letters. She is the founder of Good Smart Funny, where she helps small business owners develop a plan to hire their team and engage them. You can reach Kate by email – kate@goodsmartfunny.com follow her @goodsmartfunny or learn more at www.goodsmartfunny.com.
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