My girls all threw Valentine’s fits yesterday but I’m now able to file them under the correct classifications as outlined by the Parent’s Guide to Raising Fit-Throwing Daughters Volume 47.

First is the Fitzpatrick—the screaming, sulking, body convulsing, shrieking kind of fit.

If you want a quick fit you can guarantee the best instigator for my seven year old is complex grade two math homework. Yesterday’s convulsions were a reaction to the following:

If Justin Bieber has six coins adding up to 76 cents, what are the coins?

There was a lot of moaning. Classic Fitzpatricks start with these guttural sounds and can quickly be averted if the antagonist (in this case, the homework) in question is removed and replaced with a tray of gummy worms but today, we were going to do whatever it took to get J-Biebs his correct change.

After a series of high-pitched squeals, tears rolling from her cheeks, chin and pouring off her fingertips, frustrated yelps for help she finally choked out an answer.

Hanna Fitzpatrick: Two snickers?

Fit still in progress.

The Fitzgibbon—the lay on the floor, silent tantrum. This one took some time to categorize because it’s easy to mistake a tantrum for a tired baby who is flopping on the floor trying to have a nap. Also, because she is so close to the floor anyway, it can catch us off guard to see her from a seated, playful position to prone in a matter of seconds. If she’s refused an almond or a toy she’ll most certainly choke on, she immediately drops to the floor, careful not to let her head hit the ground (which kind of takes away from the drama of the tantrum, the Fitzgibbon is the gentler of the tantrums—she’ll learn when she’s older if she wants any sympathy from her parents, she’s going to have to make the head hit appear accidental but will need to make contact with the carpet) and on occasion lifts both feet, the double leg lift which is nearly impossible for most adults but effortless when you’re fifteen months and slams her feet down on the floor. Words can’t describe how she’s feeling because the words she has are “Abu” and “Baybee” and neither would be appropriate in response to an almond or toy denial. Instead, she collapses on her back, slams her legs a couple of times (Fitzy’s silent mantra) before she’s ready to shake it off and join the party again.

The Fitzgerald (named after the academic influence of author F. Scott Fitzgerald)

Our five year old defined this one. Ellie the pleaser senses Bieber change-making commotion at the table and realizes someone else is being paid obsessive amounts of attention in relation to academia and she is not on the receiving end. She begins to frantically mold play-doh into DNA molecules for a real life Polly Pocket, grasping for attention.

Ellie interrupts and asks to have us make her some grade two math homework pages so she can follow along. I scribble ten addition questions and hand her the paper as my focus is the Bieber tantrum.

Ellie interrupting: How are you going to know whose paper you are marking?

Me: By your name.

Ellie: Where will I put my name if it doesn’t say N-A-M-E with a long line up at the top?

Here you go.

NAME:  ______________________

She intentionally miscalculates 5 plus 6. I asked her why and she said because she loves it when I circle the question indicating that it’s wrong and make her do it again. Who is this kid?

There’s a second skirmish in the distance. Two tantrums have collided. The Fitzpatrick is yanking a toy from the Fitzgibbon, both visibly upset and the Fitzgerald is reacting to the chaos. If Chloe had defecated in Ellie’s toy basket rendering every single toy she owns completely useless, it would have been better than what she witnessed.

Fitzgerald sobbing: Chloe scrumpled the corner of my homework!

I too was surprised by such a violent scrumpling and I knew what I had to do. The only cure I could bank on.

Rapid fire flash cards, almonds and Justin Bieber with a pocket full of coins.