As parents, we’ve all lost it, snapped, and acted in ways that we’re not proud of. I know I have. And when this happens, all we can do is forgive ourselves, let go of the guilt, and seek out ways to prevent the snap (or meltdown or the losing of our shit or whatever we call it when our own behavior fails to meet our own expectations).
I discovered the key to my own meltdown prevention one evening, during the usual routine. You know it. The one that’s similar to a cyclone. It strikes weekdays between the hours of 4:00 and 8:00 pm.
A typical Evening Cyclone and the surprises that pop up within it renders me useless by 9 pm… at which point I rip open a jumbo chocolate bar and plant myself firmly on the couch.
Those hours leading up to bedtime are action packed. They involve an endless flow of food preparation, cleaning up, homework, varying activities, and more cleaning up. Then bath time and the sorting out of everybody’s things. And, of course, we can’t forget the unpredictable tasks of tantrum management and the keeping of sibling peace (insert frazzled expression).
On the above-mentioned (and ever so insightful) weekday evening, I was unknowingly on the verge of a discovery. I was also on the precipice of a meltdown. My role as peacekeeper was wearing thin, and my patience was waning. The girls were messily brushing their teeth. I was sorting the dirty laundry into piles.
My chocolate + couch time was feeling very far away.
I took a few deep breaths, willing my patience to hold out.
Twenty minutes more.
I can do this!
Then my youngest decides (for no apparent reason) to scratch her sister who does not retaliate but instead screeches the most ear-piercing, window-breaking, instant headache-inducing shriek.
Deep breaths.
My eyeballs are pretty much akin to those of a bug, at this point.
“You’re all right,” I say to Zed.
“NO story for you tonight,” I inform Mini.
I start to shuffle them all towards their rooms, insanity creeping at my heels.
And then, the front door opens. Hubby is home from work. Up the stairs he comes.
This is my cue.
“I’m outta here,” I say, in a matter of fact manner.
Hubby’s brow furrows.
I turn and walk away, peeling my clothes off layer by layer as I go. I don’t look back, but I’m pretty sure they’re watching me. I open the door, turn on the water and step into the shower. The perplexed look on my husband’s face is the last thing I see and then steam surrounds me. For that moment, and the six to follow, I am alone in Tahiti.
I emerge from the shower, a new woman. I throw on my robe and I’m ready for story time.
Seven minutes in Tahiti, for me, on that day was a simple shower. It dissolved the meltdown in its tracks. Sometimes, I find that sending an S.O.S. text to a fellow mom often does the trick too. She’ll text back a photo of her son, missing his bangs or a confession that she’s just been hiding in an undisclosed location scoffing ice cream.
Ahhhhh, 7 Minutes in Tahiti. Where do you find yours?
