Tiny Tyrant's Terrible Temper Tantrum: Mama loses her shit and throws keys at doorman

Oh my. I am just trying to decompress and stop shaking. How can 28 pounds of curly hair, angelic eyes, and pearly whites get me so utterly and completely stressed out?? Seriously, when I think about it objectively, I don't understand it. I live through it several times a week, but I can't quite wrap my head around it. The child stresses me out. Or at least, his screaming, body-slamming temper tantrums do.

Halfway home from the libes, the screaming starts. And the bucking (so hard that he actually jerks the stroller, as I am pushing it). And the disapproving stares from the hoardes of tourists on their way to the zoo. I try, I try so hard to offer solutions. The Tiny Tyrant is inconsolable. I don't know what he wants. I don't know if he knows.

I know there is nothing I can do. I just have to wait the tantrum out. I know it will stop as randomly as it started. There's nothing I can do for him, as much as it is killing me. Killing me on the heart-level, as the maternal impulse to do whatever.I.can. to comfort my son is so gut-wrenching strong, but --more importantly-- killing me on the -I'm-human-there-is-a-distinct-limit-to-the-amount-of-blood-curdling-shrieking-I-can-physically-handle-before-I-lose.my.shit-and-you-surpassed-that-five-long-minutes-ago-level.

My nerves hum. My teeth are on edge. I am crazed. I will literally sell my soul, sacrifice a lamb, vote Republican, AN-EE-THING to Make It Stop. It is summer in DC; I am sweating; I am pushing a heavy load as fast as I can; I am hot; I am shaking; I am quickly losing my cool. I am trying. I'm trying. I'm about to cry.

I get home. I free the monster from the confines of the Maclaren. He is instantly all smiles (red-faced, snotty ones, but smiles none-the-less). We head up in the elevator with thoughts of cool drinks and hot dogs on the way... and guess who forgot her keys?? Thank God for the conceirge.

But this roadblock has set him off again. I can't take it; the 45 seconds it takes to go down in the elevator, the two minutes it takes the doorman to sign out the spare key --the judgemental eyes of the building manager boring into me as my child shrieks, flails, sobs, gasps, kicks, screams, wails, hollers--, the 45 seconds it takes to go back up, the 6.2 seconds it takes to unlock the door and bolt back to the elevator, the 45 second trip, the 4.3 seconds to race to the front desk... The doorman is on the phone. I am not about to wait for him to hang up. I chuck the spare onto the desk and bolt for the elevator, shouting Thank You Tess above the din of my screaming son and my screaming nerves.

I am mortified. I just threw my keys at the doorman. I am a better person than that. I am a better person than all of this. I have handled classrooms full of boys --from 3 year olds to 18 year olds-- and I have done it with couth, aplomb, calm-cool-collected-and smiling. What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I do better than that? Why do I consistently fail, tell myself I'll do better next time, and then fail again?

It's not just the keys. I lose my shit like that all the time. I usually do it in the privacy of my own home, with nobody there to judge me but myself, but to lose my shit in public like that, and throw my keys at the doorman. That's a new low.

I am human, and I have no excuses. I will try and fail again tomorrow. That's what we do.