Controlled Crying

I have pictures of a little member of the Davies clan screaming, uncontrollable with rage. It is an embarrassing photo that shows how a proper tantrum is thrown – with tears, anger and lots of face scrunching.

The reason I have these photos is my mum scanned them in and sent them to me. You see the picture of pure unadulterated temper-tantruming opposite is me in full blown melt down as a boy.

Many have commented about the similarity between myself and Belle in this pic, but there’s a subtle difference. When Belle loses her rag she keeps one hand on it.

What do I mean?

When Belle decides to throw a tantrum she has learnt from those first few times when she threw herself to the floor and started flapping around like an epileptic at a roller disco.

She quickly discovered that throwing yourself to the ground is a quick way to get hurt by banging your head on whichever surface you are gracing with the current strop.

Now she gently sits on the floor, eases herself back slowly and once fully reclined and in a comfortable position, begins her crying/screaming fest.

When she does this I find myself not getting angry or upset, rather simply impressed at how this new generation of Davies seems to have evolved. As you can see from these pics my tantrums as a boy went on for years and my own safety (and apparently clean washing hanging on a line) were of no consequence.

Arms flailed, fists flew and nice clean laundry got ripped down stamped on and thrown to the long grass.

My daughter though seems to have a more sensible approach. One that doesn’t need a crash helmet or a second run through the washing machine.

Of course, I’m fooling myself. I know full well that the uncontrollable tantrums will come.  Once she learns that her own brand of controlled crying isn’t generating the required response I’m sure she’ll escalate. Like I did. Rage will overcome her and she will become a mini, less green, though equally terrifying Hulk and nothing will be safe.

It’s not something I look forward to. I can almost feel the embarrassment as I stand mortified in a supermarket as Belle picks up tins of beans, crates of beer, passing shoppers and begins lobbing them indiscriminately across the store.

Even now I can picture myself offering chocolate, chips or cash to make it stop. Meanwhile my mum, wherever she is at the time, will be overcome with a sense of justice/parental omnipodence that I am getting a taste of my own toddler-tantrum medicine as she folds the washing and smiles.

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