You know how blogging gurus and SEO (search engine optimization) whizzes tell you that you have to ‘SEO’ your post title? To enable your post to be top of the page when people are searching for something specific? Well, if you’re searching for anything related to poop, or shit, welcome! But be prepared to be disappointed because this post is not about poop, it’s about my meltdown.
I threw an adult-sized tantrum a few months ago, and at first, I wanted to blog about it immediately, because it was the kind of thing you do when you’re a blogger – “I should blog this”. But I didn’t because I felt like a jerk after it happened, and I did not want you to think that I was a jerk.
However, we are being real here. I’ve already told you about feeding cake and french fries to my children at the most inappropriate times. I’ve confessed to not always loving motherhood. I think I can spill the beans now about how un-zen I was one afternoon without fear of judgment.
It was a hot, hot afternoon. Already sweltering with the baby strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn, and loaded down with my handbag, a bag of groceries, and my son’s school bag, the last thing I needed was for him to throw a tantrum. But throw a tantrum he did. It started in the school, continued to our walk to the car, and he refused to get in. There happened to be a bunch of people fussing over/ gawking at a car being towed, which was right in front of where I’d parked.
So not only was I sweating and fighting my 3 year old, we had an audience. One dude said to me, “Why is he crying?” to which I snapped, “None of your business.” I had to haul my 30+ pound child into the car (remember, I still had the baby strapped to me), kicking and screaming, force him into the car seat while he bucked and arched. My temper was rising with the heat, the back of my neck prickling with sweat.
Finished, I closed the car door, and looked up to see a car pull up and stopped right beside mine on the other side, blocking the very door I had to access, to get the baby into his car seat. The driver got out, and walked over to the car that was being towed (Quick quiz: How many assholes does it take to get a car towed? Answer: Too many). I marched up to my car door, opened it and could not get it to open wider than a few inches, far too tight a squeeze to get my child in.
The driver turned to look at me, quizzically.
“MOVE. YOUR. CAR.”
“What? Wait. I’m busy, can’t you see?” he gestured rudely.
“I SAID. MOVE YOUR F*CKING CAR NOW!”
“I said, wait.”
“I AM NOT KIDDING, YOU BETTER MOVE YOUR F*CKING CAR NOW, OR ELSE! I HAVE A SCREAMING KID BY HIMSELF IN THE CAR, AND I NEED TO OPEN THIS DOOR, SO I CAN PUT MY BABY IN. MOVE YOUR CAR, A**HOLE!”
Shocked, the asshat finally walked over, got into his car, and backed up into a parking space behind my car.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST PARK THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE, A**HOLE?!”
Yes, I was relentless. I was pissed. I lost my shit. I lost it all over that parking lot. I lost it while my son was screaming in the car. I lost it while I still had my baby strapped to my chest, my yelling probably scaring him. I did not consider for a moment that I could have been dealing with someone who might have been dangerous, who might have been more pissed off at me than I was at him. I did not consider any of that. All I thought about was, I need to get the hell out of here NOW, out of this hot sun, into my cold, air-conditioned car, back to the comfort of my own home so I could deal with my tantrum-y child.
By the time we got home? Both kids were laughing and playing, like nothing had just happened.
Me? I just felt like a jerk.
When was the last time you lost your shit? What happened?