When Emotions Run High: A Story of Trampolines, Tantrums, and Tiny Notes

Yesterday after school, I made a conscious parenting choice.

After two days of post-school TV time followed by chaotic dinner meltdowns, I decided it was time to shift the energy. No screens. Just fresh air, backyard play, and unstructured freedom.

The boys were happily bouncing on the trampoline—Harris with his puppet "Bob" (a clever creation from a foot stocking), and Kove with his own box of treasures and a bunny in tow. Earlier that morning, my husband had helped build a “house” for Bob out of cardboard box. A proud little setup that Harris adored.

For a while, everything was peaceful. They were connecting, laughing, jumping, being kids. Until, like most boy energy on trampolines… things escalated.

Kove accidentally bumped into Bob’s box-house. It didn’t break, but it did bend slightly. Still, in Harris’s eyes, it was a catastrophe.

His emotions took over. Big ones.

Hurt quickly turned to fury. Shouting. Fists and legs swinging. Kove didn’t help—he stirred the pot by continuing to jump nearby. And Harris? He refused to get off the trampoline.

This used to be the kind of moment where I would also spiral. I’d yell. Threaten. Try to control.

But I’m learning to show up differently.

I stayed calm and grounded. I gently said, “I can see you’re really upset. I want to help. Can you come down so we can talk about it and I can give you a cuddle?”

Nope. Still wouldn’t budge.

So I offered a choice. “You can come down and talk to me, or I’ll need to help you down.”

Eventually, he did.

But the storm inside him hadn’t passed. He was still red-faced, tense, and lashing out with words like “Go away!” and “Don’t talk to me!”

Instead of reacting, I said, “It’s okay to be angry. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

And when his words grew sharper, I made space.

“I’ll wait outside your door,” I told him. “When you’re ready, I’m here.”

A few minutes later, a note slid under the door.

That was the moment everything shifted.

We started writing letters. Me on one side, him on the other. Just a pen and paper. Back and forth we went, softening the heat with each tiny note. My words offered empathy. His words slowly opened up to connection. 

Meanwhile, Kove was trying to say sorry for the accident—a huge emotional milestone for him after recently struggling to apologise at kindy. But Harris, still needing space, rejected the attempt. So now I was co-regulating both children at once.

I gently helped Kove redirect. “You can try writing a note too, if you like.” At first, he refused. So I just sat next to him and drew. No pressure. Just presence.

Soon enough, Kove began writing.

And before I knew it, two little boys were passing handwritten messages under the bedroom door, reconnecting on their own terms. 

No forced apologies.
No yelling.
No battles over dinner.

Just space, softness, and a sprinkle of creativity.

Eventually, they came out, calm and ready for dinner. First Kove, then Harris. My husband and I even managed a few minutes of quiet eating alone—an unexpected bonus.

I could have pushed. I used to. I used to need everyone seated at the table, eating at the same time, and being compliant. But I’m learning—when I slow down, so do they. When I regulate, they learn how to do the same.

And when emotions run high, sometimes the best parenting tool… is a pen and paper slid under the door.