Meltdowns

If there's one thing everyone knows about me, it's that I love to shop.  There is nothing more thrilling to me than finding a great deal on a trendy article of clothing.  Wait a minute, I temporarily had myself confused with my good friend down the street  (you know who you are Mr. Honey-I-Bought-You-This-Cute-Pencil Skirt).  This is a manly man's blog and there will be no love of shopping professed here.  Just think of me as the former drill seargant turned therapist in the Geico commercial and you'll understand my nature, you Jack Wagons. 

Anyway, the wife and I went Christmas shopping tonight.  One of the only ways for me to find this legalized form of spousal torture bearable is to watch other peoples' children have public meltdowns in the middle of the store.  I find this so enjoyable because far too often I have been the parent dealing with a child in full meltdown mode. Besides, seeing other peoples' problems always makes us feel better about ourselves, right? The most important thing to remember when dealing with a child having a meltdown is to stop it before they get into a groove.  Once the meltdown is rolling it is impossible to stop until you get back in the car and threaten punishments that would surely warrant a call to DCFS if other shoppers were to hear.

Both the wife and her mother have a specific way of dealing with a meltdown once it starts....distraction.  They immediately try to find something funny, shocking or scary to point out to the child, hoping to distract the child and stop the meltdown before it starts.  Sometimes Buck Double (only the most loyal of readers will remember how my 1 1/2 year old son got this name) has a meltdown when it's bed time.  The other night he started into a meltdown and, knowing I had to act quickly, I gave myself completely to nature and let my fatherly instincts take over.  Because he still relies on his mother as a supplement to candy, popcorn and anything else he happens to find on the floor, nature told me just what to do.  I lied him in my arms in just the right position, lifted my shirt and offered to feed him.  Although my bottle is full and ample, he knew something wasn't right and looked up at me as if to ask, "dad, what is wrong with you?"  Maybe it was instincts or maybe it was my furry bottle, but something told him this wasn't how God intended him to be nourished.  Perhaps I will never know the real reason, but one thing I know is that he was definitely distracted and the meltdown was avoided.