On Meltdowns, Dandelions, and Noticing Change

In hindsight, I knew better. From the too-late bedtime the night before to the whining and bellyaching in the carpool line to the after-school snack I forgot on the kitchen counter, all signs pointed to one thing: the 4-year-old is tired and hangry and whatever you do, do not take her in public.

Yet there we went, into the library, all in a row like a mama duck and her ducklings, because that’s what we do on Mondays after school.

Twenty minutes later, I stood over said 4-year-old where she writhed on the ground in front of the circulation desk. She screamed, she grabbed at my pant leg, she yanked a book from my hand and threw it toward the old wardrobe our library uses for library holds. All because I’d announced it was time to go. Sweat beaded on my back as I attempted to wrangle her into my arms alongside our library tote (filled with a week’s worth of picture books and a long-awaited copy of Ralph S. Mouse), the diaper bag, and my 20-pound 8-month-old who I wore in the front pack. Avoiding eye contact with the librarian, I struggled back out of the library, less like an orderly row of ducks and more like a disheveled mama hyena and her unruly pups.

Next came the screeching, back-arching, heavy-as-a-hippo-stiff-as-a-board carseat battle. What is it about a five-point-harness that turns a 4-year-old into the Hulk? By the time I finally flopped into the driver’s seat, I was soaked with sweat, out of breath, and, well, just to be frank: I was pissed. She’s four. Why are we still doing this?

Gripping the steering wheel, I took a few deep breaths. I tried to tune out her continued screaming and inhaled and exhaled a few more times for good measure. Then, I turned around to look at her. Her face was red, her ponytail had been ripped out at some point, and tears streamed down her face as she continued to struggle against the buckles of her seat. Behind her, in stark contrast, her older brother Royce sat quietly looking through the book he’d picked out.

Looking at him, I realized he’d stayed calm through the whole ordeal. He’d finished scanning our books as I knelt to scoop up his wailing sister. He’d handed me the full tote bag, and walked quietly beside me all the way to the car. He’d climbed obediently into his booster seat and buckled himself in while I got my second workout of the day.

***

There’s a two-way stop sign we wait at every morning on the way to school. For the past few weeks, each time we stop there, I’ve noticed the dandelions in the grass on the shoulder of the road—hundreds of them, their brilliant yellow a stark contrast against the green grass and gray road. But the other day, as I waited for a hay truck to pass so I could cross the highway in front of us, I realized the yellow was missing.

Seemingly overnight, all the dandelions had gone to seed.

***

To say Royce was a difficult baby, toddler, and preschooler would be an understatement. His infant colic became emotional outbursts around the time of his cleft lip repair at 14 months, and his meltdowns were explosive, violent, and frequent. They were loud and embarrassing and, to add insult to injury, almost exclusively directed at me.

I’d heard lore about the “terrible twos,” but the behavior continued as we rounded the corner on three, and then four, and then five. Would his tantrums ever stop? Would I ever be able to run errands, or go to a birthday party, or leave the library, without everyone in a half-mile radius hearing about it?

I worried constantly. I blamed myself. I googled, consulted girlfriends with big kids, and admitted what was going on to his pediatrician. Give it time, they all said. Consistency and time.

But for a handful of years, Royce’s tantrums were part of my daily life. I came to anticipate and plan around them. I grocery shopped without him whenever possible. I avoided the park like the plague. I started to wonder if he would go to college and throw himself violently on the floor when the professor announced a pop quiz he wasn’t ready for.

Now, they’ve stopped. While he still does his fair share of door slamming and yelling, he also tells me he’s feeling mad before he yells sometimes, and even takes a break to cool off before he falls apart on occasion.

Growth. Progress. Infinitesimal signs of change.

***

Since that day at the stop sign, I’ve spent some time researching the life cycle of a dandelion (because I’m cool like that). It turns out, the process by which a dandelion flower becomes a seed puff doesn’t occur overnight at all. In fact, it’s a fairly complex process through which each individual floret of the flower becomes a parachute-like seed pod via pollination and dehydration, and it takes about a week. A week’s worth of small, nearly invisible, changes that add up to one big, noticeable transformation.

***

I often fall into the trap of believing instantaneous growth in my kids is not only possible, but probable. At the very least, I think I can control the trajectory and rate of that growth. I convince myself that the right well-researched tactic or action plan will speed things along and somehow hit the fast-forward button on whatever difficult phase it is we’re in. A year of 2-year-old tantrums and meltdowns? No sweat. But when that year becomes two, three, five, eighteen plus years of helping my kids navigate and regulate their emotions? Well, that does make me sweat.

I want three-day potty boot camp to result in a fully potty-trained toddler who never has accidents. I want sleep-training to take two nights and give me consistent, uninterrupted sleep for the rest of childhood. I want one hard conversation about lying or sneaking or using kind words to be sufficient, and never want to address the topic again.

But change, especially the growing and maturing kind, is slow and hard to measure or see.

And really, even as I rapidly approach my mid-thirties, can I honestly say I have all the answers? That I’ve fully matured?

***

I walked down the driveway last night to get the mail. It was the first warm, windless spring evening, which has taken forever to arrive this year. Closing the mailbox, I noticed a dandelion. The yellow cluster of petals was partially covered by what I now know are called “bracts”: the green leaf-like parts of the stem that fold over the flower as it transforms into a seed-puff.

I wished Royce—who’d been as enthralled by the dandelion time lapse on YouTube as I was—were with me. I had the urge to pick the half-grown flower, to share it with him when I got back to the house, but after spending so much time thinking about the life-cycle of this particular plant species, something about interrupting its growth felt wrong.

Instead, I took one last look before heading back up our gravel drive, content for once just to notice the signs of change.

Cara Stolen is a ranch wife and work-at-home mama of three who lives in rural Washington state. An avid runner and outdoor enthusiast, she loves exceptionally early mornings, pushing the limits of an acceptable day hike, and backpacking or horse packing with her husband, Levi. She believes words have the power to buoy us through the hardest of times, and hopes to make other mothers feel seen with hers. You can find more of her work on her website.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.