I knew it was only a matter of time.
Lil Diva has always known what she wanted, never afraid to voice her opinion from the placement of a toy, to what I dared feed her for dinner.
She’s possessed the Banshee wail – especially during evil bouts of teething.
She’s called “Lil Diva” for a reason – the drama, whether good or bad, has always been strong in her.
But Wednesday it finally happened. A moment more than any other milestone showing me how little precious time remains before she jumps from 23 months old to The Big Two.
She had a full blown temper tantrum.
My poor mother unwisely trekked downstairs minutes before, trying in vain to be social with her grandchildren (and eat) as she fought off a sinus and ear infection and the early stage of bronchitis (more on that tomorrow…).
I’m certain my mother’s head resembled the dude from Scanners, just before exploding – before Lil Diva let it loose.
It was for something simple, too.
She whined, wanting me to pick her up and carry her.
“Mommy has to make sandwiches, sweetie, so we can go somewhere.”
She whined louder.
“If you want something, use your words. Tell Mommy what it is you want.”
More insistent whining.
I’m already sitting on the floor, as she tries to climb my stomach to my shoulder, angry I haven’t stood with her.
“I’m not picking you up and carrying you around. You’re a big girl. Tell me what you want or we can just snuggle right here.”
She screeched at me.
I stood, walking to the kitchen to make the aforementioned sandwiches. Leaving her behind.
She rolled into full tantrum – more constant screeching and squawking than actual crying.
I put her in time-out, which she hates, after multiple warnings I would do so.
She refused to sit, laying on the floor.
Screeching. Whining. Screaming.
Kicking her feet occasionally for emphasis.
My poor mother held her head in her hands, her nonverbal cues yelling as loud as my daughter to, “Please, make her stop.”
But I couldn’t.
I knew giving in would unleash the fury of the Lil Diva a hundred fold in the future.
She threw herself into the “toddler tantrum” role, her debut performance a sight and sound to behold.*
Finally, silence crept into the screeching.
A hint at first. Then more.
I used the opportunity for distraction.
Minutes later, she remembered she was supposed to be mad, and released the warning squawk.
“No ma’am. We don’t screech. Do you want to sit in time-out again?”
“Unh-uh.” She shook her head.
“Then let’s snuggle and read our book.”
Tantrum #2 averted.
* * *