Remembering a meltdown

Today I witnessed the complete and total meltdown of a four year old. He was upset about something or other that I suspect neither he, nor his father, actually remembered. The wailing, the tears, the destructive moment, the pounding, the air-hitting, all of it warped into a

And I thought about the number of times I had done that as a child. I recall only a few, but certainly not because I had only a few. I'm sure I had a lot more than a few, with that certainty coming from my grumpy face in more than a small number of family photos.

Actually, of the photos of my childhood that I actually have, my nose is red from crying more often than it is not.

I was clearly either a frustrated and / or frustrating child.

After seeing the meltdown, I texted both my mom and my dad and apologized, once again, for being such a horrible child. I'm not sure I actually was any more difficult than any other child, as a whole I couldn't have been too bad: I didn't use drugs, I enjoyed going to school, I had good grades, I had good friends. There's a difference, however, between being a good kid and being an easy kid.

And I know that I wasn't an easy kid.

Both my parents responded.

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