Saturday, February 25, 2012

And Then There Were Tantrums

My beautiful boy is a year old now.  He's is cuter and more fun than ever. He walks, talks a little, charms us to bits. And just to contrast those adorable moments, now we have tantrums. Screaming, wailing, thrashing of limbs. You know what I'm talking about. Even if you don't have your own children, you've seen this. It's not pretty.

Uh-oh. He's getting mad...

I think I need to reread The Power of Now. But this time, during the entire reading, I need to imagine a screaming baby. I thought I was calm. Zen. Quiet. Peaceful. Present.

Then my one-year-old started throwing temper tantrums that make me want to unleash some kind of fiery, volcanic maelstrom. I don't want to unleash it on him, but I feel it there, simmering, wanting out. It's a primal discontent penetrating my every cell. I feel bombarded, besieged. I want my mommy.

OK, yoga, get me through this one. Please.

I remember Eckhart Tolle writing something about a dog barking constantly next door, and that you could choose to be immune to it.  You could imagine yourself transparent and let the sound pass through you. I don't feel transparent when that boy screams. I feel helpless, overwhelmed, agitated, on edge.

Then I breathe. It helps. A little.

And praying. That helps too.

And of course, eventually, it passes.  That helps a lot. He smiles and giggles and amazes me with his new knowledge and skills. He hugs me like I'm his hero. He cuddles up to me when he's sleepy. He presses his whole face against mine in a toddler kiss. He brings me bliss.

He teaches me that I'm not immune to frustration. And that I still have a lot of work to do.

Deep breath. Back to the mat.