how to manage a toddler tantrum
We were tucked away in a corner booth enjoying breakfast when my daughter started to come undone. Her fingers dripped in water from a sippy cup turned splash pad. She was over it, refusing the highchair or another parent swap, and so was my moment with First Watch’s signature pancakes. Wrapping up the meal and closing out the tab, we headed down a paved trail to expedite the incoming nap. To our surprise, she had all the time and energy to fight it. Summoning her mother’s rage and reaching octaves we’d never experienced. As we walked past a line of manicured homes and quiet streets with a screaming toddler, I suddenly started to come undone.
“You cannot break cycles by giving in to inherited ones that once broke you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time. ”, I said, cutting my husband off mid conversation. Encouraging me to process the emotions in real time, he prompted me to share my thoughts. “I don’t want to. Not now. I just want to get home and stay there until this season passes”, I responded. “Now is the best time to do it, while it’s happening. You may not be able to access those emotions after the fact”, he said. Confronted by reason, I began to unload my thoughts. “I’m very aware of my being brown in this moment. Her response feels like a failure in my parenting.” “Don’t white children also cry and tantrum?”, he asked. “Of course, but they’re seen as children, innocent. They’re viewed with a particular bias. They’re not seen as aggressors or some failed product of minority upbringing when they cry”. Her screams continued to pierce my pride as I fought to make sense of what felt like another incoherent argument. Of all places to have a meltdown this was not it. Certainly not for me, at least. My brain was scrambling. Emotions fighting to regulate. Attempting to settle racing thoughts, I gave way to breathing exercises. Even reminded myself that it was normal for children, especially mine, to cry but something in me continued to wither.
“Beyond my daughter’s fit, this was an issue that started with me.”
I was triggered and, like many other instances, I knew the heart of the issue stemmed beyond whatever was happening before me. Beyond my daughter’s fit, this was an issue that started with me. Desperately seeking to disable the internal alarms I sought through my Dominican experiences for a different narrative but the memories did little to alleviate the frustration. Familiar words proceeded to pop into my mind. Mal criado/a — what we often heard the adults call them; crying children or tantrum-like behavior reduced to a matter of being ill-bred or ill-mannered. Manipulador(a) — another popular label, still often used, that dismisses unfavorable behaviors (often [un]expressed needs) to a conscious form of manipulation, regardless of age or developmental facts. The associations made me cold, impatient, less receptive to any contrasting truth or empathy presented. What would my mother think? What would my aunts say if they were here? Would they raise their brows or laugh at my incapacity? The more I processed the situation, the uglier the lies became. Though their power wained, my attachment to the negative narratives persisted. Clinging to them fiercely like a victim to an abuser. But why?
The most pervasive lies seeded in the wake of colonialism were ones that swiftly and violently silenced culture outside of its bubble. Ingraining in the conquered the ways of abandonment, loss, and smallness. Their survival thrived on invisibility. And while we’ve come a long way from that enslavement, in many ways, we remain ensnared; spiritually and emotionally captive to the traumas suffered by generations before us. As a first-gen, I assumed many unelaborated fears and beliefs originating from that time. Many of these passed to and by my parents who have yet to, and may never fully, unpack. Many of these wrestles still remain dormant and undiscovered. Only recently have some of made themselves apparent as I witness the evolution of freedom in my own daughter.
“Even in my silence and slow reactivity I battle internally, waging war with all that I’ve despised and loved about my parents’ parenting choices as I push to make an advocate, a fighter, a queen of the life I brought into this world.”
As I identify the ways I’ve been compromised, I’m riddled with guilt and shame. Confronted by the good, bad, and grey areas of parenting I’ve channeled from my mother’s approach. Repeating familIar impatient phrases I hated hearing growing up and buying into stories that contributed to my feeling misunderstood for years. Even in my silence and slow reactivity I battle internally, waging war with all that I’ve despised and loved about my parents’ parenting choices as I push to make an advocate, a fighter, a queen of the life I brought into this world. I want all the things for her but, like my parents, I struggle to forfeit control. Holding fast to colonialist narratives that once ensured our survival has been a blanket of safety in the wilderness. Clearly, I’m not done unpacking and I sense, like many of life’s lessons, that this area is one that will never reach nirvana. Despite this unresolved truth, I long to find peace simply in the journey.
So how exactly do you manage a [brown/black] toddler tantrum? You don’t. You manage your own feelings and scripts. Run a scan on the history, excavate the truth, and banish the misconceptions. Wherever grace, patience, and empathy lack, run it again. You cannot break cycles by giving in to inherited ones that once broke you.
