You Scream, I Scream

I used to smile smugly at children who screamed and threw temper tantrums as I looked at my own sweet well-behaved daughter at my side believing I was such a good mother because she never acted that way. I believed, in my complete and utter naiveté and arrogance that parents could actually control their children’s behavior.

I was so deluded. Sadly, sadly deluded.

If there is a child flailing about on the floor in the cereal aisle, howling as boxes of Cheerios and Kix rain down on him, chances are good that’s it’s my son.

If you are in, say, Target and you hear ear-piercing screeching coming from the back of the store as if someone has put a cat through a meat grinder, likely, it’s my son.

If you are at some sort of entertainment event such as a movie or a play or even a sporting event and your enjoyment of such an event is disturbed by a flurry of tiny arms and legs thrashing at a red faced adult and shrieking as he is carried out of the venue and causes you to miss the best joke of the movie, your child’s only line in the play or the most unbelievable shot of the game, almost certainly, it’s my son.

Screaming is a big thing in our household. At least by him. I tried it once but gave up in utter shame at my poor showing. He’s a champ.

I am now the person other people walk by and either smile sympathetically or cluck their tongues depending on if they’ve been in my shoes. If they have, they understand that children suffer from the same fate as adults: They have free will and control is just an illusion perpetuated by people who don’t have children and people who have naturally very obedient children. To the latter, I say—you got lucky, people.

However for all the suffering his screaming causes me, there is a surprising upside.

If there is a child running through the grocery store yelling with a huge smile spread across his face yelling, “Mommy! I go potty!” before tackling his mother and throwing his arms around her legs, there’s a good chance, it’s my son.

If there is a child laughing heartily at a joke you think he couldn’t possible understand or laughing at the sheer joy of gliding on new ice skates before falling on his butt which just makes him laugh harder, likely, it’s my son.

If there is a child who goes from jumping up and down and screaming to giggles, smothering hugs and kisses and grand proclamations of love within 2.5 seconds, with absolute certainty, that’s my son.

How lucky am I?

Now when I see parents at the store or restaurant with a look of pinched embarrassment as they try to maintain some semblance of control over themselves and their screaming child thrashing about on the floor, I smile. I’m sympathetic, of course, but mostly, I’m glad I left mine at home.




P.S. I want to extend a huge thank you to my daughter, my first child who broke the ice and let me test the waters as a parent but didn’t test me too bad (at least not then!). She gave me the confidence to try again. Granted, it was completely arrogant and misguided confidence but that’s probably the grand joke of the universe. Either way, I am a doubly lucky parent. I have the best of both worlds.