Meltdown

I recently posted this on Facebook, along with a cute pic of my grandgirls eating pink frosted donuts in their PJs:

When I keep my grandgirls, I have two non-negotiables: safety and rest. That means pretty much everything else goes. Sprinkle-donuts for breakfast? Why, yes, Taking a bubble bath instead of going to school on time? Duh.

Yesterday at Animal Kingdom (which had a lot of moments of not feeling safe, so Gramma was a little bit of a mess), a cast member pointed at Brooklyn's face and said to me, "Umm, I think she's got some, you know, maybe chocolate on her face?" I looked down at my ice cream-smeared granddaughter, who was grinning like a fool, and I looked back at the cast member and said, "Yep! She sure does!" Did I wipe it off? Nah. (eventually)

So. They pick their own outfits, which make them look like extras in a clown show. They eat popsicles in the bathtub. They change their princess panties anytime they feel like it. We watch too many episodes of Strawberry Shortcake, and we eat pizza picnic style on the living room floor.

If they turn out to be irresponsible, self-centered adults who refuse to put their shoes on without help? Not my fault, man. That's on their parents. I am FUN GRAMMA. HEAR! ME! ROAR!

What I didn’t post is this:

These kids scare the living crap out of me. Kennedy is impulsive (code for “not thinking before doing totally ridiculous things like taking her daddy’s scissors out of his desk and screaming, while running,, ‘I want to cut things, GRAMMA!’”), and Brooklyn has a hot temper, all too ready to feel wronged at the injustices a two-year old suffers. Like having to wear clothes.

I’m not kidding when I say I get angry. Like angry enough that I have to give myself a time-out in the bathroom because I’m shaking, and I don’t want to say something hurtful or pick up a thrashing body less gently than I absolutely must.

So I step over the wailing kid and I snatch the scissors from the hand that is flying by and I go stand in the bathroom, shaking and sweating and willing my breathing to

slow

down.

If Matt is nearby, he says helpful things like, “They miss their mom,” or “Let’s try a distraction.” If he’s not nearby, I keep my hands moving, hoping that picking up tiny stinky socks or wiping down the counters will return balance to the force. Sometimes that works, and I remember to laugh at my little nutcases. I remember that I have the power to choose my reaction, even if I do not have the power of control.

And that’s really what all my fear and trembling is about: control. How much I have. How little I have. How terrified I am.

I stayed with my little ones for a few days recently so Mom and Dad could get a little vacation. Here’s what happened at 11:15 p.m. the first night. I woke up to hear Brooklyn wimpering. Somewhere between that first wimper and 11:20 p.m., she delaminated. She roared and screamed and hit and flailed and screeched, and every suggestion I made meant to sooth her was met with full-frontal rage.

I held her through much of this, rocking and singing and assuring her all was okay. When I set her down for just a second because our combined perspiration was making her to slippery to safely hold, she ran as far away from me as she could and then fell down sobbing.

It was awful. I realized what she wanted—let’s be super specific here—was not me. I was right. Matt came in a few minutes later with her sippy cup and a piece of watermelon (her favorite), and she instantly quieted. I scooped her up and asked, “Should we put Owl Baby back in your bed?” She hiccupped and nodded. “Do you want to lie down with Owl Baby in your bed?” Another nod and sticky arms wrapped around my neck for the walk back to the room she shares with sissy.

I laid her down gently gently gently, whispering, “I love you” over and over. She curled around her baby doll like a little roly poly bug, but then glared up at me one last time. “Covers ON, Gramma!” she bellowed. Yes, love. Here you go. Blankie right up to your tiny chin. Sleep well, angel.

And then I stayed awake for the next, oh, three hours, heart pounding.

What in the hell was that?

The next day, Matt and I talked about what happened. He reminded me again of the necessity of distraction. Of offering her exit ramps from her fury. I was frustrated to hear this. Dang it all, I’d offered her the sippy cup, favorite toys, rocking, a snack. I told Matt that his timing had been miraculous, and she had tired of crying at the exact same moment he showed up with a piece of watermelon. He looked me doubtfully and said, “Sippy cup.”

Fine.

In the hours after the meltdown, I laid in bed, my eyeballs getting grittier and grittier, my heart beating faster and faster. I couldn’t stop worst-case-scenario-ing. What would I do on the nights Matt couldn’t stay over, when I’d be alone with Scissor Girl and Princess Rage-a-Lot? Would Brooklyn wake up livid again? What if she didn’t stop crying? What if she hurt herself flailing about in her temper tantrum? What if Kennedy did something so impulsive, she got really, seriously injured? Where is the nearest hospital? If a kid is bleeding, do I have to buckle the car seat?

Eventually, blessedly, my mind wandered. I thought about the Blue Babies Pink podcast. After decades of begging God to remove his same-gender attraction, Brett remembered the serenity prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Oh. Yes. That control thing uh-gain.

So I prayed.

Jesus, I can’t change Kennedy’s impulsiveness or Brooklyn’s temper. I just can’t. And that makes me freakin’ crazy. But I can see that the frustrations of a toddler are real. I can choose how I react—which is not in fear, because fear isn’t on your team—and I can be present and calm even in the meltdowns. I can start over as many times as it takes.

I fell asleep murmuring the serenity prayer. I fell asleep asking God to change me rather than “fixing” a little girl. I fell asleep. I fell asleep.

And the next few days? There were more meltdowns, more unpredictable and unsafe behaviors. But there was a ton of laughter, too, way more laughter than tears.

Truth? This little girl, the one who is almost fifty years old, can be just as reckless, just as angry, as her grandgirls. Although I have a handful of coping mechanisms in my toolbox, I don’t always use them. I’m all too ready to do before thinking, react before breathing, blurt out before praying.

Every night and every day, though, I am loved. There’s a good and gentle and kind God who knows and sees, who pulls the blankie up to my chin, who overlooks my demands and my glares and my bellows, and whispers, “Sleep well, my angel. Sleep well.”