Yesterday I took the kids into town for the day. We really didn't need anything, but I promised Hubby a child-free house for Father's Day. A bunch of his friends came out to play a board game that only geeks who love history and strategy games could enjoy. Count me out. Anyway. By the end of the day, Girl Terror was past her limit of good behaviour, and a melt-down was blowing in. I took them to McD's in an effort to feed, change butts, and entertain all in a short period of time. I wasn't quick enough. You know (if you're a mother) those tantrums where the only option is to bear-hug the kid, restraining them from wreaking havoc on the entire city? The kind of fit where your shins get kicked, your chin gets head-butted, and you get a hole in your tongue from biting it? Well, we had one. Right there under the golden arches. Normally, I would take her to the car to wait it out, or pack up and go home, but I had both kids with me. Abandoning Boy Terror in a high chair didn't seem like a good idea, and I wasn't prepared to let him (and me!) go without supper just because my three year old has the attitude of a thirteen year old. So I held her, and smiled at the other diners, and waited. I hope I was successful in giving off a vibe that said "I am restraining her, yes, but I'm not hurting her! Really! And no matter what she is saying, I really am a decent mother!" No one called the authorities, thank God.
These tantrums only happen once in a very, very long while. Usually the bomb is disabled long before the point of no return. But naturally, in a public restaurant at dinner time, we had to give perfect strangers a reason to say "Man, I hope she's not planning on anymore. Looks like her hands are full." And all the men were thinking, "I sure am glad that's not MY wife and kids."