Why don’t we talk about meltdowns? I’m not talking about the basic whining or flopping like a fish meltdowns. Those, we “talk” about. Kind of. We make a joke, say it’s wine time, or send a rolling eyes emoji or entertaining meme to our friends.
But the real intense meltdowns? The ones that involve screams and cries that pop blood vessels? When your child legitimately turns into the Incredible Hulk? The ones when objects are thrown in between the thrashing of arms and legs? The ones where you’ve exhausted every other strategy and you’re left with the last resort. To physically restrain your child in some form of bear hug or wrestling move.
My son has had several of these real intense meltdowns since he turned five. Fortunately (I guess), 95% of his meltdowns have occurred in the privacy of our home. He only lets loose for me and my husband.
I have tried to talk about them, but shame gets in the way of any real conversations.
Shame at revealing a sharp side of my son that no one else ever sees. This isn’t the real him, so why should I speak of it?
Shame at believing I am alone in these parenting experiences. Whenever I try to describe the nature of his meltdowns, I am met with shock. Wow, the scene lasted that many minutes? Oh, my kid’s meltdowns were never like that.
Shame at feeling ashamed of how he’s acting. Shame at thinking I’m doing something wrong.
But then I remember the two meltdowns (of varying degrees) he had in public and the shame lifts.
The first one, sometime in July, occurred at a baseball field. He didn’t want to stop playing, but we needed to get home, so his baby sister could nap. I had given him repeated warning countdowns and, as usual, I gave into some extra pitches. But he lost it when I finally walked off the mound and started packing up. He began shouting. I asked him to sit on the bench and cool down with snacks. Cue the Incredible Hulk. He sped over to the stroller and flipped it with one swift motion. He huffed and puffed back to the bench where his sister and I were safely seated.
A woman with a dog walked over and asked if she could try to help. I remember laughing as I said, “Sure. Good luck.” She asked him if he would like to pet the dog or give him a treat. My son, face red and streaked with tears, quietly shook his head. I thanked her. She bought me time to safely get his sister into the stroller.
As she walked away, he began pouting and stamping his foot. I started to walk away, believing he was calm enough to follow. But he screamed. I remember kneeling down and through gritted teeth, asking if I needed to put him in the stroller. The woman, several feet away now, said, “You’re a good mom.”
I smiled back at her, tears coming to my own eyes. Tears still come every time I share the story.
Flash forward to September and I’m in a supermarket with my son and his baby sister. He’s throwing in junk I keep removing from the shopping cart. It starts as a funny game, but I can see that it’s inching closer to meltdown territory. We’re in the yogurt aisle and he won’t accept that a) he doesn’t like the cotton candy gogurt and b) it’s not healthy. He’s starting to grip the box with ferocity and argue louder. I pry it from his hands and return it to the shelf.
Just as he starts to angry cry, a woman interrupts and tells him, “You’re lucky. Your mom’s really nice. My boys wouldn’t get the other treats you have.”
She turns to me and says, “Stand your ground.” She continues walking before I can respond.
In the moment, I didn’t know how to read her words. I thought they were tinged with condescension. But it didn’t feel like mommy shaming. And my son retreated. He didn’t thank me, but he stepped away from his emerging meltdown.
During both of those moments, there were other people milling about. They looked on and from afar, keeping silent. I don’t fault them. I’ve been them when I’ve witnessed uncomfortable moments in public.
But I also know that speaking helps. Those two women talked to me, to my son, to us. Their words affirmed that I wasn’t alone. That he isn’t the only child who becomes someone else during meltdowns.
They empathized with us, two strangers.
We all have those moments. You are not alone! ?