I'm a huge fan of the tantrum. Temper tantrums? Damn! I love me some of those. Being kicked in the face? Bring it. Having to scrape a child off the asphalt? Better than Monday night television.
I'm especially fond of the public outburst. The sudden possessed-by-devil-screams out of nowhere because of a dropped-raspberry at the Farmer's Market. LOVE THAT! Especially when surrounded by my-kid-is-so-much-more-well-behaved-than-your-child parents who scoff and roll their eyes. Who eye me like I obviously can't handle my child. Awesome!
But even better than all of that is dragging a screaming child home, seven blocks on foot in 100 degree heat because I'm trying to wean said child off the stroller, with fourteen bags of produce and a giant bag of shit that's supposed to cure tantrums, i.e. pacifiers, cookies, coffee, beer, etc, and having all of that stuff thrown in the street when offered.
Seriously, people. What's not to love about a good old-fashioned kick to the tit followed by a hair-pull followed by a torn tee-shirt? Sexy.
This is what makes the trials and tribulations of parenthood ALLLLL worthwhile.
Not.
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