Hysteria

Zane had a meltdown the other morning. He got out of bed relatively well, got dressed, etc., without incident. Larry and I locked up, put Zane into his car seat and we were off to face the day. We had to pause for a train on the way to the daycare, but otherwise we were running on time.

Except my son chose this moment to want his action figure, Captain America.

Captain America. Captain America was not in the car on this day. Captain America was at our house.

Larry and I both explained this to our son, thinking that we were being reasonable.

Zane did not want Captain America to be at home. He wanted Captain America to be in the car with him. NOW.

We explained, again, that Captain America was at home, and that we would not be turning around to go retrieve him, but would continue our progress toward the daycare. Again, perfectly reasonable, we parents. Captain America would be waiting for Zane when he got home.

This would not do for Zane.

Whiny Voice was engaged. Crying Began. The heavy breathing that signals a serious tantrum filled the car. Zane upped the ante by kicking the backs of our seats. Up until that point, I had had no idea that his legs were now long enough for him to do that.

We live about a mile from the daycare, but by the time we got there, Zane was in full out Evil Kitty mode--a ball of spitting, hitting, kicking, screaming child. It was next to impossible to get him out of the car seat once we got to the daycare. Zane kept trying to rebuckle his straps, as if doing so would cause us to throw up our hands and drive him back home so he could be with Captain America.

I was not in a good frame of mind myself. I've been under a lot of stress at work, and I suppose that it was catching up to me. I felt like I was having a panic attack, like people were out to get me, like all of my world was going to explode. I was going to end up on the corner, holding up one of those cardboard signs that says "Will work for food". Completely unreasonable stuff, like most panic attacks. I was determined to NOT give in to my inner crazy, so I was trying to speaking calmly as if I were not on the verge of exploding out of my skin.

Zane's distress, whether warranted or not, had me fighting back tears. I carried him into the daycare, him kicking, wiggling, and wailing, and me with a trembling lower lip. We went through the two security checkpoints, down the hall and into his classroom. I handed him off to the teacher without a word, and I walked out the door back to the car. Larry, thankfully, did not say a word, but put the car into reverse and backed us out of the parking spot.

And of course, five minutes later when I called the daycare, Zane was just fine. It took me a little longer to calm down.