avatarKerala Taylor

Summary

A mother recounts a stressful day at The Grotto where her three-year-old daughter has a public meltdown, leading to a breakdown in her parenting approach.

Abstract

The article narrates a mother's experience of taking her children to The Grotto, a tranquil Catholic church garden, in an attempt to find peace amidst the chaos of her new family dynamics. Despite her hopes for a reflective outing, her youngest daughter's competitive nature and subsequent tantrum over a labyrinth walk challenge the mother's ability to manage the situation calmly. The mother's attempts to apply her knowledge from parenting books fail, and she succumbs to the pressure, losing her temper in front of nuns and other visitors. The incident leads to a reflection on the gap between theoretical parenting advice and the messy reality of raising children, emphasizing the importance of self-compassion and learning from one's mistakes.

Opinions

  • The author believes that parenting is a challenging journey that cannot always be navigated by following advice from books.
  • She acknowledges the difficulty of maintaining composure and applying parenting techniques in the face of a child's public tantrum.
  • The mother feels a sense of failure and embarrassment when her daughter's meltdown attracts the attention of onlookers, including a group of nuns.
  • She admits to using bribes and vague threats as parenting tools, recognizing their occasional effectiveness despite their imperfection.
  • The author reflects on the importance of not being too hard on oneself as a parent, understanding that real-life parenting scenarios are often more complex than those described by "parenting experts."
  • She humorously notes the irony of her daughter being content with a simple cheese stick after the ordeal, contrasting with her own lingering disappointment over the lost burger.
  • The mother resolves to learn from the experience and to strive for better management of her emotions in future challenging situations.

What Not To Do When Your Child Has a Public Meltdown

I broke every rule in every parenting book

Photo via Canva.

It was 11:30 a.m. My three-year-old daughter was losing her mind. In the background, a group of nuns stared at us. I’m quite sure that at least one of them was feeling smug about her decision to remain chaste.

We were at The Grotto, a Catholic church nestled in the serenity of a sprawling garden, lush with grass, trees, and flowering bushes. Our reasons for being there had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with the fact that mom needed to get out of the house. My threenager was demanding enough, but in the course of six weeks, I had also gained a teenager — my stepson, who had moved across the country to live with us full-time — and a new baby boy.

The Grotto gardens were everything our house was not. They were outside. They were quiet. They inspired reflection. Somewhere between a babbling brook and a group of murmuring nuns, we stumbled upon a labyrinth, a design etched in stone on the ground. I immediately recognized the design from a sweatshirt my father used to wear, which featured an image of a labyrinth with the words, “Follow your bliss.”

I was in desperate need of some bliss.

One can choose an entrance on the perimeter of the labyrinth and follow a winding path to get to the center. Unlike corn mazes, which terrify me, a labyrinth doesn’t demand that you make any choices. It doesn’t sadistically lure you toward a dead-end. It only asks you to follow its path. As you wind around, you wonder if you are ever going to reach the center, and just when you think you’re close, the path turns and it suddenly seems like you’re going backward. But, with patience and faith, eventually, you reach your destination. Maybe my bliss awaited me there.

My daughter, stepson, and I all chose separate paths and began our slow, winding journey to the center of the labyrinth. The baby was snuggled against my chest, and for a few moments, I concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other. Silence wrapped around me like a warm embrace.

I wasn’t thinking about the interest rate on the mortgage we were trying to refinance so I could afford another month of maternity leave. I wasn’t thinking about what to make for dinner or the bathtime battle that awaited me that evening. In fact, the only thought that entered my head during those precious moments of silence was the burger I would be enjoying on the way home. After subsisting on a diet of cheese and crackers for the better part of the last six weeks, I’d woken up that morning with two goals for the day: 1) get out of the house, and 2) eat something warm, greasy, and crammed with calories.

The burgers were a rare treat and a blatant bribe. Burgerville, as I had made abundantly clear, does not serve burgers to children who don’t listen. Children who don’t listen have to eat whole wheat crackers and cheese.

I reached the center of the labyrinth first. I could already taste the white bread, stained reddish brown with burger grease, interspersed with the salty hot crispness of fries. My stepson was close behind me, and my daughter was still winding her way around with furrowed brows, not quite understanding what we were doing or why.

But whatever it was we were doing, I had done it first. Mom had won. She had lost. This was unacceptable.

The first shriek ripped through the air, obliterating the babbling brook, the murmuring of the nuns, and the bliss I had just followed. “Honey, it’s not a race,” I said, as I felt my blood pressure rise.

Another shriek. Tears. “You got there first! It’s not fair!”

“Keep going, you’re almost there!” But I knew I had already lost her. The shrieks lapsed into deafening, undulating wails. The tears flowed.

“You didn’t wait for me! You got there first! It’s not fair!”

Up ahead, the nuns were staring at us. And though I couldn’t see them all, I knew that every visitor in the garden was standing somewhere, head cocked, wondering why a child was losing her mind and why her mother wasn’t doing something about it.

I knew that every visitor in the garden was standing somewhere, head cocked, wondering why a child was losing her mind and why her mother wasn’t doing something about it.

We needed to get the hell out of there. I tried to take my daughter’s hand, but she flung it away and collapsed on the ground in a shuddering puddle of tears. Very loud tears.

All the books I had read were supposed to prepare me for moments like this. I had highlighted, underlined, written notes in the margins. I had studied how to set limits with my strong-willed child, how to talk so kids will listen, how to stop yelling and start connecting, how to calm the chaos and nurture my child’s developing mind.

Diligent studying had always earned me A’s in school, but I’d never had to take exams with a hysterical three-year-old at my feet. And, I was all too aware that I already had a strike against me, having started the day by bribing my daughter with burgers.

I weakly offered: “Honey, I’m sure you must feel frustrated.”

Even through her tears, my daughter gave me an exasperated look. Frustrated? the look said. Mom, that doesn’t even BEGIN to describe how I’m feeling right now.

Okay, emotional validation was out. I tried to see the situation from her perspective. “I’m sorry I didn’t explain things better,” I said. “I should have made it clearer that the labyrinth is not a competition.”

Another exasperated look. More loud tears.

It was time to set some limits. “OK, let’s go,” I said.

“NO!”

“Yes, come on.”

“NO!”

“Please come now, or we won’t get burgers.”

As soon as the words left my lips, I knew it was the wrong move. As a parent, I am the Queen of Vague Threats I Have No Intention of Following Through With. But these were unique circumstances. One simply can’t allow a child to have a meltdown in front of a group of nuns, then make a threat of no burgers, and then give in.

Not only did I feel obligated to follow through on my threat, but the possibility of no burgers compounded with the horror of “losing” the labyrinth to her mother and brothers only spurred my daughter’s tantrum to new heights. “BUT I WANT BURGERS! I WANT BURGERS! I WANT BURGERRRRRRRRRRRS!”

I was determined not to give in. I started to walk away, gesturing to my stepson to follow my lead. Unfortunately, the quickest route to the car involved passing the group of nuns, and I did my best to mask my mortification with a sheepish, “Kids. What are you going to do?” expression.

When my daughter saw us leaving, the shrieks that followed may have reached a decibel level heretofore unattained by humankind. I was fairly certain that every inhabitant within the city limits of Portland, Oregon could now hear my daughter in distress. I was also fairly certain we had caught God’s attention as well.

I was fairly certain that every inhabitant within the city limits of Portland, Oregon could now hear my daughter in distress. I was also fairly certain we had caught God’s attention as well.

Enough was enough. I had to put an end to this. So I proceeded to further sabotage my discipline efforts by violating the “keep calm” rule and completely losing my mind. Pausing directly in front of the nuns, and no doubt directly under the watchful eyes and furrowed brows of God, I launched into a vicious diatribe, which likely included at least one f-bomb. I can’t really remember what I said. Probably something about ungrateful daughters not only embarrassing their mothers in a place of worship but also depriving their mother of a cheeseburger with fries. I may have also mentioned that it was highly likely we were all going to hell.

Somehow, we made it back to the car, and by the time we were all strapped in and on the road, an eerie silence descended. My stepson looked both shell-shocked and mildly impressed— in the 11 years he had known me, he had never once witnessed, or inspired, such rage.

My daughter’s shoulders still shuddered slightly as she inhaled, and I was trying to calm my own jagged breaths. I spent most of the ride home mourning the loss of my burger. As we approached the house, my daughter finally piped up. “Mom, when we get home, can I have a cheese stick?”

When all was said and done, my daughter was perfectly content with her cheese stick and crackers. The baby, having slept through most of the ordeal, awoke to feast on my breasts. My stepson took a walk to get his lunch at Burgerville. After all, he had behaved beautifully, and there was no reason he should be punished.

Like all parents, I was learning things the hard way. As I retraced my steps, I realized all the things I could have done differently. Such as:

  1. Do not take your unpredictable three-year-old to a venue at which people are praying.
  2. Do not ever win a game against your highly competitive three-year-old unless you’re prepared for the consequences. (And remember, everything is a game.)
  3. Do not deprive yourself of a cheeseburger to teach your child a lesson.

And yet, even as I was learning things the hard way, I was also learning not to be too hard on myself. Parenting isn’t a test I can consistently ace just by cracking the books. The tidy scenarios laid out by the so-called “parenting experts” tend to be much messier in real life. Sometimes I will resort to bribes and vague threats (which, I will point out, sometimes work) and sometimes I will lose my mind.

But next time, I’ll try not to do it in front of the nuns.

Related stories by Kerala Taylor:

Parenting
Motherhood
Mothers And Daughters
Nonfiction
Storytelling
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