<< Toddler throwing a tantrum
In the face of this, would any parent remain calm? Photograph: Chris Collins/Corbis

But now I am that idiot parent. And – despite a cringeworthy moment when my two-year-old pointed to a Buddhist monk and asked, "Why is that man wearing a dress like a lady?" – the meditation is going well. Really well. It's provided me with practical tools for day-to-day life with a toddler. For, let's face it, as adorable as their company can be, relaxing it is not.

Most of the time my daughter, Phoebe, is utterly beguiling – full of songs, giggles and spontaneous dances. But, occasionally, she experiences outbreaks of unmitigated rage. They involve floor-writhing, head-butting and a howling that would make any self-respecting banshee glow with pride. I find them hard to cope with, especially in public. There was an incident over a tuna sandwich in a cafe that I still can't think of without a shudder.

It was my husband who first came up with the idea of meditation. He started a course in it to help him deal with work stress. It all seemed a bit new agey to me: the sort of thing beloved by people who read auras and stick crystals on their kids' heads when they're sick. But then I witnessed the difference in him. He could shrug off incidences of workplace ineptitude that would previously have had him grinding his teeth in fury-induced insomnia at 4am.

I wondered if it could help me keep similarly calm during Phoebe's tantrums, and took her along to a parent and toddler meditation group at the local Buddhist centre. Believe me, this was not done without trepidation. I was brought up as an atheist to see organised religion as the source of all humanity's woes. I also think, however, that it's ignorant arrogance to write off ancient wisdom in its entirety.

We were ushered into a large room. Cushions and a basket of toys were laid out, as well as little tables, on which sat pencils and drawings of Buddha to colour in. I should point out that it is only the parents who meditate. The drooling ones are just there for a play. Two helpers keep an eye on them while the mummies and daddies zone out (when this was explained at the outset, I did wonder if they knew how to deal with attempts at swallowing a non-food item several times wider than the throat it's being forced into).

An orange-robed, shaven-headed man came in and sat, cross-legged, on a podium. I felt uneasy, until he made a self-deprecating joke about a monk telling a bunch of mothers how to cope with their kids. He spoke in a cockney accent and laughed frequently. Later, he teased some of the kids about their smelly feet.

We grownups closed our eyes so he could guide us through the meditation – initially instructing us to focus on our breathing and then asking us to dwell on a positive aspect of someone we experience, erm, 'difficulty' with in our lives.

It sounds terribly cheesy, but the children went strangely quiet at first – although they may well just have been over-awed by the unfamiliar setting. I really was able to try (and largely fail – come on, Tibetan masters spend a lifetime trying to do this!) to calm the swirling miasma of my mind.

And then I became aware that Phoebe had placed one of the drawings of Buddha on the carpet. She was punching through it with a pencil. Repeatedly. Irritated by the noise, I squinted down crossly at her through one eye.

"Close your eyes again Mummy," she laughed. I raised my eyebrows … and then remembered something the monk had said about being able to perceive the world more positively if I could change my reactions to other people's behaviour. I looked round the room. Other kids were now running about, throwing toys and mock wrestling on the carpet. A baby was screaming. All of this was far more disruptive than my daughter's behaviour. But none of it bothered me, because I wasn't responsible for them.

I decided that if I could ignore the paper hole-punching, I might really have learnt something. And, as we were leaving, I felt – truly unexpectedly – like I had (until Phoebe drew attention to the monk's outfit and showed we have much work on gender stereotyping to do).

We now attend weekly. Despite times when - mid-attempted meditation - my little one overturns the odd table or sits on my knee to try and prise my eyes open, I still feel it gives both of us a moment of calm during our busy week.

I'm not claiming that I've become a patiently smiling saint overnight. But I do think that if you can glimpse a moment of peaceful calm in the presence of your baby or toddler, you're really on to something – both as a parent and a human being.