Do you know what’s scarier than a 3-year-old in the middle of a raging tantrum?

The eerie, sudden, complete silence that ensued when we sent said irate tantrummer to his room for a time-out.

We’re used to echoing screams bouncing down the hallway. Kicks to the door, yep. Howls of outrage, totally normal. The outrage usually lasts for a few minutes, until he dials it down a bit and says the magic words, “I want to talk about it.” Then we go in have a chat about appropriate behavior, and carry on.

Not this time.

This time, after being sent to his room mid-dinner for whatever ridiculous breach of protocol he came up with this time, he screamed at full volume for 15 seconds, then went absolutely mute. Like, no sounds at all. John and I looked at each other, mildly alarmed. We waited, thinking maybe he was gathering oxygen for a fresh vocal assault.

Nope, silence.

The parental paranoia started running through my brain. Did he somehow pull his dresser on top of him? Fall and hit his head? “Go see what’s going on,” I told John. We were a bit freaked out.

“Are you OK? Toby, TALK TO ME.” John’s voice was edging toward panic. He carried Toby down the hall toward me. Toby’s little face was slack, his mouth hanging open. Completely unresponsive. We went into panic mode, frantically trying to think what might have happened. Do 3-year-olds have strokes???? We huddled over him, tantrum forgotten, desperate to have him respond and solve this puzzle of sudden reversal.

Then I saw Toby slant a sly side look toward John.

“We’ve been had. Big time,” I told John. Toby looked at me and I could almost swear he laughed. “Had, we’ve been. Badly.”

He plopped Toby back in his chair at the table, and instantly he was back to cute, happy, compliant Toby. Noshing on his dinner like nothing happened. So… yeah. Time-out aborted, consequences of the misbehavior vanished, attention lavished. Just. Like. That.

Well played, young’un. Well played.