Parenting books teach about the Terrible Twos and Terrific Threes, but they leave out the Melodramatic Three-and-a-halves. Every day our daughter Fern hits peaks of euphoria and canyons of despair worthy of a soap opera pilot.

Take, for example, the saga of the sticks. Fern and I had plans to hike with a friend, and my daughter woke up all aflutter. “I love you so much!” she proclaimed when she opened her eyes, and was just as effusive all morning. Everything she saw was cause for delight:

“That cloud looks like a refrigerator!”

“Those rocks are bee-YOOT-i-full!”

“Looook.... MUD!”

And, of course, Fern was excited about sticks. She and her friend collected a half-dozen “walking sticks” before we even set out. We limited each girl to one stick and proceeded to have a great hike punctuated only occasionally by mild tussles about which stick belonged to whom.

As we were collecting ourselves to go home, Fern stooped to gather all the sticks she’d dropped earlier. She’d decided that we were taking all that kindling with us. Though I’ll admit I’m a lax enforcer of the “no taking stuff from nature” rule when it’s a pebble or a leaf, I don’t think I’ve ever said anything to give Fern the impression that we could haul home a trunk-load of timber.

So I said “no,” and my cheerful little hiker finally broke her seven-hour stretch of euphoria. Instantly, she started sobbing about how much she would miss her sticks. And I found myself in the middle of a full-blown conniption.

That’s what defines the “late threes” for me: geysers of newly discovered emotions, both joyful and piteous. And I have no clue how to handle them.

So far, I’ve tried two tantrum tactics. The first, familiar to many starry-eyed parents, is the “logical explanation.” I painstakingly pointed out that sticks must remain in the forest to feed the mushrooms, decompose into soil, and be beautiful for other park visitors. That makes sense, right, darling?

Of course not. Logic has its place: Kids love explanations. But it’s powerless against a tantrum.

The other approach is to be stern, and maybe even angry. At the park I was frustrated with Fern’s sudden desire to take home a forest of sticks taller than herself, not to mention agitated by the embarrassing wailing. My baser impulse was to confront her tantrum with shouting.

A good shout does change behavior – sometimes – and it sure vents frustration. But I’m certain that nothing I’ve ever shouted at Fern has registered as a real lesson; it usually just makes her angrier.

I needed a third way.

I’m a parenthood plagiarist: I watch how other adults succeed with kids and copy them. In this case, it was Fern’s nursery school teachers who demonstrated exactly the manner of speaking I’d been looking for. With just their voices, Fern’s teachers exude high expectations married with a real respect for the kids’ learning journey.

I realized that I already use this third voice all the time – with other people’s kids. Kids who aren’t mine don’t try my patience, maybe because I know that I get to hand them back to their own parents before too long.

In treating Fern a little like someone else’s daughter, I hit upon the right tone of voice: engaged but non-threatening; not neutral but not angry. The third way isn’t detached from a lesson; it’s detached from anger.

As Fern closes in on her fourth birthday, we’re starting to see the edges wear off her emotional spikes. I’m also learning to let her outbursts wash over me without absorbing their fury.