When the rages started, his eyes would get glazed over like a wild animal's eyes. I would know he wasn’t there anymore. I never knew what started these rages--it seemed random. His eyes changed, his back arched, his little butt almost touched his shoulder blades; he was in fight mode. I would grab him and take him to the basement where there were beanbag chairs. I would hold him around his middle as I laid back in a big beanbag. His head was free to move as were his arms and legs and I was mostly protected by the big beanbag. With the windows open, the shrill of his screams would pierce the tranquility of our oak tree-lined street. He would scream until he had no voice left. The human ear can only handle so many decibels. Above that level, your nervous system freaks out, and Tad’s scream was consistently above that level.

His temper tantrums could go on for two to three hours. He would scream a very shrill scream and then he would start coming at me--kicking, biting, pinching. So I would plop down in that beanbag chair. He’d come at me. I’d turn him around; he was screaming, so I’d put both arms around his belly. I’d be holding him, secure, his back against my belly. I had pillows inside my legs to protect him as well as myself. I laid my head back so he couldn’t butt up against my jaw, and I would breathe, one two three four, doing everything I could to not attend to anything he was doing. It took an incredible amount of strength. He was little, and I’m a big woman, and it took everything I had. My job was to breathe, focus on mantra, and not react to him. I would stay calm and wait for the physical energy to play out; he would exhaust at some point.

The problem was that I would think it was never going to stop. I was scared that I would just break and do something to him. That’s a terror all mothers have--that at some point I can’t take it and you’ll find this kid dead. Finally his body would go limp. I’d quit breathing--“Oh dear God, let it be over.” But sometimes it wasn’t. So I listened to his breath to see if it had calmed down. When it was over, he always rolled over to his left side, put his left arm around my neck and said, “I love you, Mommy.” I knew then that I loved him too. And then he’d say, “I’m hungry.” So I would go upstairs and fix him a snack.

It was necessary that I have no reaction to the experience. The sheer decibels of his scream could undo me. I would do mantra. In yoga, we learned to repeat Sanskrit sounds that evoke a feeling of peace. I would repeat the mantra over and over as Tad screamed and scratched and kicked. Sometimes fingernails would scrape my forearms and face. He would bang his head against my chest and if I was not attending well, he could hit my chin with his head. Abrupt surges of pain could make me lose my focus and I would react but I had to regain my focus. It was the only way to get the tantrums to stop. My strength would begin to wane after an hour of wrestling with him. I would feel a moment of getting emotional and wondering why I was being dealt this hand. I could not find answers and knew I had to abandon the questions and stay focused on what was real. He was screaming and kicking and there was nothing to do but keep him safe and keep me safe. We were in a dance and there was nothing to do but finish it.

Detachment was a teaching that Gurudev brought up in almost every lecture. He would talk about being in the moment in the experience without having a reaction. All reactions are from the past. Response is in the moment. He talked about simply experiencing the moment without judgment. Being in a hold with your child who is throwing a tantrum is a physical experience. I tried to just feel the activity and hear the sounds and the smells and stay out of my mind that told me that this was insane. As I remained detached and began to feel in the moment, I could feel my child’s frustration and his fear. I was not comfortable feeling his dilemma. John had told me that I had to do the hold and not react. It sounded like yoga to me. There was nothing else I could do.