O holy cow

It is time now to speak of the COW which our girlie had a week or two back. It was a full-blown, veins popping out of her neck, two-tone heterodyne scream-filled, wee fists wailing on inanimate objects, spittle coming out with bursts of speech, fifteen-minute-long COW. A COW of such generous proportions that I was half expecting her head to spin ‘round 360 degrees and spew split pea soup, à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The little guy would have been alarmed, I’m sure, but I’d have just ducked and covered his head.

Everyone who’s tended a toddler knows whereof I speak, to one degree or another. And we just got a peek at tantrum in the first degree. Even if you’ve conveniently forgotten these concentrated hits of uncut, unregulated emotion, I assure you your kid did something along these lines. Heck, we all did something along these lines, back when we were hacking our way through the underbrush of our as-yet untamed prefrontal cortexes, or what have you. You know, back in the frontier days, when the still-clumsy frontal lobe (reason! self control!) was trying to get a leg up on the fully-intact, robust amygdala (fight! flight!).

The lil’ monkey’s COW began with the flip of a switch. (Here’s how I picture the switch, by the way.)

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