It’s Wednesday night and I’m glued to an episode of SuperNanny, desperate to glean some kind of wisdom from this English rent-a-cop, when I witness a familiar and terrifying scene. The bad family she has been sent to fix is having an experiment at a restaurant, where they’re supposed to teach their toddler to stop throwing tantrums while the family is eating.
Toddler starts going nuts, screaming and wailing atop his high chair. “Don’t pick him up!” hisses SuperNanny - “you’ll only teach him screaming gets him what he wants!” So the family sits there, staring at their miniature Tazamian Devil breaking decibel levels.
4 minutes pass.
8 minutes pass.
12 minutes pass. The mother angers the SuperNanny and finally holds her toddler, who instantly stops screaming.
I don’t hear what the rent-a-cop is saying - I’m in tears, confused and angry. My kid freaks out sometimes when we’re out to eat, I think, but I take her out and try to calm her down before I bring her back, or leave. I’m not thinking about her behavior - I’m thinking about how mad the other patrons might get for my little screamer ruining their meal out. 12 whole minutes??
So then I’m doing it wrong? I’m creating a monster by trying to be polite? SuperNanny can’t be wrong - she’s actually got experience in this - I’ve only been a mom for 18 months. This means I’m messing it up already! I’m a horrible parent!!!!
My stomach is knotted up, and I’m fighting the urge to wake up my baby and teach her what a “Naughty Mat” is.
30 minutes later…
We hear grunts and moans over the baby monitor. It’s 10pm, is that tantrum factory going to wake up and scream at me even more?
SexyHusband comes back into our room with a worried expression. “She’s burning up. What do we do?”
The knots in my stomach lurch and turn upside down.
We take off her pajamas and force-feed administer a fever reducer, then daddy settles in a chair, cradling her on his chest as I try to cool her down with a wet cloth. Thoughts of time-outs, discipline and Naughty anythings are gone from my mind.
How funny perspective can be switched so instantly. I feel helpless, and I find comfort that the look in SexyHusband’s eyes is just as scared as mine. Her beautiful 18-month body curls up in her daddy’s arms, and she smiles impishly to tell us something very profoud in unitelligible gibberish before her eyes close again and she falls back asleep.
Maybe SuperNanny is right and I’m doing this all wrong. I can’t get her to stop shrieking at every small disapointment, and these middle of the night fevers and tummy aches make me feel even more clueless and lost. I’m still waiting for her “real” mom to show up and take over - it can’t be me. Mothers have all the answers, all I have are lists of questions.
But I can hold her and let her know she’s loved. That’s all I’ve got so far.
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