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 â€˜round 360 degrees and spew split pea soup, Ã la Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The little guy would have been alarmed, Iâ€™m sure, but Iâ€™d have just ducked and covered his head.
Everyone whoâ€™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 youâ€™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 lilâ€™ monkeyâ€™s COW began with the flip of a switch. (Hereâ€™s how I picture the switch, by the way.)