I have heard horror stories told in hushed voices in the flickering light of the mommy-campfire, but up until now I had only experienced glimpses out of the corner of my eye of the phenomenon.  But this weekend, during an otherwise satisfactory Kohl’s Labor Day weekend sale, I finally experienced the full impact of the Total Toddler Meltdown.  Without any warning whatsoever, my normally sweet-natured, social son degenerated into a shrieking maniac in front of his completely bewildered grandmother and his equally confused and astounded mother.

Harry’s tolerance for being confined to stroller or grocery cart has been limited since he discovered bipedal locomotion at 11 months.  Whenever I can, I try to let him exercise his legs – it is not only a treat for him, but a survival tactic on my part.  Five to ten minutes of playing “follow the leader” is far preferable to 30-45 minutes of wiggly whiny toddler.  This weekend’s manifestation of sanity-preservation consisted of several minutes of playing “Where’s Harry?” in the girl’s clothing department while my mother-in-law looked through the sales racks for clothing for Harry’s cousin.  After coming around a corner of a display rack to find my son festooned in little girl’s underwear, socks and purses, I decided that it was time to take him back to the safer confines of his stroller, and scooped him up.  I knew there would be protestation (I am not completely dim), but the following 20-minute ordeal was completely unprecedented and bordered on the surreal.

Harry screamed with anger.  Shrieked.  Arched his back.  Pummeled his fists.  Threw his little tense body around in his stroller like a tetanus victim deep in the final throes of rigor.  He turned a shade of red not found in any Crayola box I have ever seen.  The stroller lurched back and forth and people in the back dressing rooms of the store peered out from behind the curtains. I think I actually went deaf in one ear. 

I was a classic case of parental apology as I tried to ignore him.  My mother-in-law was riveted.  I know she was thinking “this didn’t come from MY side of the family…”.  After TEN solid, agonizing minutes, I tried to pick him up to comfort him.  Oh foolish mortal.  Not only was this staggeringly ineffective, but had the sole result of my son doing ALL of the same contortions while hanging upside down from my frantic grasping hands.  After five more bruising minutes trying to find the manual emergency “stop” button, I gave up and put him back down on the floor in defeat.

But by this point, the reason for his sudden typhoon of anger had been lost, even to Harry.  The point was he was angry, and by god, was not likely to forget he was angry that easily.  He threw himself forward on the floor, sobbing and flailing.  He stood up and grabbed me frantically by the legs, burying his face in my thighs and beating his feet.  When I tried to pick him back up he threw himself floorwards again and clung to my knees, threatening to de-pants me right there in the Men’s department. 

I couldn’t help it.  I started to giggle.  It went so far beyond embarrassment that it was literally hysterical.  The fact that he had no idea whatsoever what he was upset about, but continued to flop around on the carpet like a gasping fish was actually so funny, I could not stop myself from laughing.  Neither could my mother-in-law.  We stood around giggling like a couple of idiots while my son soaked himself in telenovela melodrama over forbidden underwear.  I prefer not to think about what the scene looked like to the casual shoppers trying hard to choose ties while studiously ignoring my son thrashing in epileptic madness on the floor, while the two grown women standing over him wiped tears from their eyes.  

We finally decided that before we were asked to leave and had our pictures posted in the security room as undesirables, that the best course of action was to wrestle him back into his stroller, throw a few cookies at him to distract him and beat a hasty, if shaky retreat to the checkout stand.  He didn’t even pause in his screaming during the consumption of at least three of the animal crackers.  He had the strangest look of detachment as he systematically ate the biscuits, like some sort of autopilot had engaged and he didn’t even realize that he was still shrieking his head off.  It had a weird fascination for the family in the line behind us, who stared at him like he had popped out a third eye.

Just as I was swiping my credit card and signing the receipt frantically, he blinked, wiped a few crumbs from his mouth, and stopped.  His face returned to a more human color and he grinned enthusiastically at the stunned family behind us, waving bye-bye as we rushed him out of the store.  I tried not to look at him.  I didn’t want to see him wink. 

I have learned my lesson.  Forget the cookies.  I want holy water in the sippy cup and the laminated wallet-sized version of the rite of exorcism tucked within easy reach in my purse.  Next sale, I go prepared.