Lil Brat Moly was having one of those mornings. The sun had barely risen, but the house already echoed with the sharp wails of a toddler on the edge. He stood in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, tears streaming down his cheeks. His tiny frame shook with frustration, his eyes locked onto the one object that could fix everything: his pacifier.
The prized item rested on the kitchen counter, just out of reach. Moly had spotted it moments ago and made a beeline for it, but Mom was faster. With a firm voice and a tired sigh, she snatched it up before he could grab it.
“No more paci, Moly. You’re a big boy now,” she said, her voice calm but resolute.
But Moly didn’t want to be a big boy. He wanted his comfort, his routine, his paci. The denial triggered a sharp, high-pitched sob. He stomped his foot, face turning red as he let out a long, dramatic cry—what his mom called the “sharply crying.” His emotions flipped from despair to fury. He was now full-on angry, throwing himself onto the floor, kicking and screaming in protest.
Mom stood over him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Her patience had worn thin. “That’s not how we ask, Moly,” she said, trying to stay composed.
But logic had no place in toddler tantrums. Moly continued to howl, his voice reaching operatic heights. His world had ended, all because the pacifier had been denied.
Eventually, exhausted, he curled up on the rug, sniffling and hiccuping.
Mom sighed, knelt beside him, and rubbed his back gently. “I know it’s hard, baby. But you’ll be okay.”
