When Life Gives You Lemons

I've seen my fair share of temper tantrums. When you've worked in an office with (at least) 95 per cent women, someone's bound to freak out from time to time. Raging hormones, ambition, and an inflated sense of self can lead to some very interesting, and often mildly entertaining, days at the office. We all have our moments.

More often than not, you might find yourself in the tantrum-thrower category or, less embarrassing, the tantrum-taker category, always at the receiving end of an assault. Assuming the latter, the way I see it, you have three options when facing an attack: you can walk away, even if you walk away wounded; you can plan a passive-aggressive revenge plot, which always appears to be more satisfying than it actually is; or you can fight fire with fire and hope it doesn't get you fired, which, although probably not the smartest idea, is what I think everybody really wants to do, deep down.

Being snubbed by a colleague is one thing, however; what do you do when you're snubbed by your 10-month old?

The other day Elizabeth was eyeing a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Since we think it's important to encourage sensory stimulation, my husband handed her a lemon from the bowl. After about 10 seconds, during which time she studied and squeezed the lemon with her perfectly pudgy little hands, it - like everything else (e.g. bugs, lint, pine needles) - ended up in her mouth.

Holding her in one arm, my other arm reached over for the lemon, and I knew (or thought I knew) exactly what to expect when I took it away: a tantrum. She's thrown tantrums before - for example when we've told her, NO, she can't play with the DVD player, the VCR (yes, we still have one), the registers, or the fireplace screen - but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. She looked at me, with genuine anger looming behind her big-girl tears, and then she looked at her dad - and put her arms out for him.

She hated me - the lemon- and tantrum-taker - and loved the lemon-giver. I was broken.

As I handed her over to her dad, I turned away from them and laughed, awkwardly. I was emotionally baffled. I really didn't know what to do. Do I fight fire with fire and throw a tantrum, too? No. That wouldn't be very mature, or productive. Do I plot revenge and lace her cereal with carrots rather than cinnamon? No. That's just mean. Instead, I did what I have always done best, and I walked away, even though I walked away wounded.   

Some say that when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. I have to say that I really don't care what you make, if anything; if life gives you lemons, whatever you do, don't give them to your daughter!