Last week, my two-year-old launched his sippy cup across the kitchen, screamed like a tiny banshee, and threw himself on the floor in a spectacular display of toddler rage.
Why? Because I gave him the blue plate instead of the green one.
I stood there, spatula in hand, feeling that familiar knot in my stomach. That helpless, overwhelmed feeling when your child completely loses it and you have absolutely no idea what to do. Sound familiar?
If you’re reading this while hiding in the pantry eating chocolate chips straight from the bag because your kid just had their third meltdown today, I see you. I’ve been there. Actually, I was there yesterday.
The truth is, watching our kids explode can trigger something primal in us. Maybe it’s the noise, the intensity, or that nagging voice saying we should know how to fix this. But here’s what I’ve learned through countless meltdowns with my two little ones: that helpless feeling? It’s actually trying to tell us something important.
Why their explosions make us feel so powerless
When our kids lose it, our nervous systems often interpret it as danger. Our bodies flood with stress hormones, and suddenly we’re in fight, flight, or freeze mode. No wonder we feel helpless—our rational brain has literally gone offline.
Plus, let’s be honest. Most of us grew up being told to stop crying, calm down, or go to our rooms until we could “behave.” So when our kids have big feelings, we’re not just dealing with their emotions. We’re wrestling with decades of programming telling us that these explosions are bad and need to be stopped immediately.
Remember that kitchen meltdown I mentioned? My first instinct was to say something like “It’s just a plate!” or “Stop crying right now!” Instead, I took a breath and reminded myself that his feelings were real to him, even if they seemed ridiculous to my adult brain.
The game-changing phrase that helps me stay grounded
“Tell me more.”
That’s it. Three words that have completely transformed how I handle my kids’ emotional explosions.
When my five-year-old storms in crying because her tower fell down for the tenth time, instead of immediately trying to fix or minimize, I say “Tell me more about that.” When emotions are running high and I have no clue what’s really going on, “Tell me more” buys me time to breathe and helps my child feel heard.
Does it always work perfectly? Absolutely not. Sometimes they’re too upset to talk. Sometimes I forget and default to “You’re okay!” But more often than not, it opens a door to connection instead of conflict.
What’s really happening in their exploding brains
Here’s the thing about kids’ brains that changed everything for me: the part that handles logic and reasoning? It’s basically under construction until they’re in their mid-twenties. Meanwhile, their emotional center is fully operational and working overtime.
Imagine trying to drive a Ferrari with bicycle brakes. That’s essentially what’s happening when your three-year-old loses it because you cut their sandwich wrong. They’re experiencing Ferrari-level emotions with bicycle-level coping skills.
Understanding this doesn’t make the screaming less loud, but it does help me remember that they’re not giving me a hard time – they’re having a hard time.
This short video below explains why these emotional explosions aren’t misbehavior, but a sign of an overwhelmed nervous system.
Creating your own emotional first aid kit
Just like we keep band-aids for skinned knees, we need tools ready for emotional explosions. Here’s what’s in my toolkit:
First, I’ve learned to recognize my own warning signs. When I start double-checking if I locked the door or overthinking every parenting decision, I know my anxiety is ramping up. That’s my cue to pause and ground myself before I try to help anyone else.
Sometimes I excuse myself for a bathroom break (even if I don’t need one) just to splash cold water on my face and take five deep breaths. Other times, I narrate what I’m seeing out loud: “Wow, you’re having really big feelings about this. Your body is showing me how upset you are.”
Physical movement helps too. We might stomp our feet together, squeeze our hands really tight and release them, or do wall pushes. Anything that helps that emotional energy move through their bodies—and mine.
When you mess up (because you will)
Yesterday afternoon, my daughter was melting down about something involving her art project, and I completely lost my patience. I raised my voice, said something I regretted, and made everything worse.
The old me would have spiraled into mom guilt for hours. Now? I practice repair quickly. Once everyone calmed down, I went to her and said, “I’m sorry I yelled. That probably felt scary. I was feeling frustrated, but that wasn’t okay.”
Kids don’t need perfect parents. They need parents who can model making mistakes and making amends. Every time we repair after losing our cool, we’re teaching them that relationships can weather storms.
Building your support system before you need it
Can we talk about how isolating it feels when your child is the one having the epic meltdown at the playground? Everyone’s staring, you’re sweating, and you’re pretty sure someone’s filming it for TikTok.
This is why you need your people lined up before the crisis hits. Find the parents who get it – the ones who’ve carried a screaming kid out of Target and lived to tell the tale. Text them when you’re hiding in the bathroom. Share the messy moments, not just the Instagram-worthy ones.
Also, please remember that every parent you see with seemingly calm children has dealt with explosions too. They’re just not happening right at this moment. We’re all in this together, even when it doesn’t feel like it.
Finding grace in the chaos
Some days, despite all our tools and strategies, everything still falls apart. The meltdowns cascade, patience runs out, and bedtime can’t come fast enough. On those days, lowering the bar isn’t giving up—it’s surviving.
Cereal for dinner? Fine. Extra screen time? Whatever works. Skipping bath time? They’ll live. Sometimes the biggest victory is everyone making it to bedtime relatively unscathed.
What matters isn’t perfection. It’s showing up, trying again, and remembering that both you and your child are doing the best you can with the skills you have right now.
Moving forward
If you’re still reading this, probably with a lukewarm cup of coffee and a child hanging on your leg, know this: feeling helpless when your child explodes doesn’t make you a bad parent. It makes you human.
Every time you stay present through a meltdown, even imperfectly, you’re teaching your child that their feelings are survivable. Every time you mess up and repair, you’re showing them that love is stronger than tough moments. And every time you feel helpless but stay anyway, you’re proving that they’re worth sticking around for, even when things get hard.
Tomorrow there will probably be another explosion about something equally bewildering. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel a little less helpless. And if not? That’s okay too. We’re all figuring this out one meltdown at a time.
