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| Image credit: Photo by Scream 101 on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
There's a reason I'm not a journalist. It's one of those jobs you always think about, if you're one of those people (like me) who has considered careers in writing. But I always saw two problems with it: 1) I need to let things ferment a little too long in my brain, putting me constantly behind the news cycle and 2) I hate interviewing people. While this post didn't require any interviewing, it did need some fermentation, so, needless to say, I'm behind the curve in commenting on a (not so) recent New York Times piece on parental yelling.
So, did you know that yelling is the new spanking? (You probably did, because you read the article three weeks ago, like everyone else. Well, in case you haven't...) It is. The article says so. And it's bad. Do you hear me parents? Don't ever do it again! I SAID, "DON'T EVER DO IT AGAIN!!" Did that work? Darn.
Yes, I admit it, I yell on occasion, and yes, yelling is a crappy long term strategy. The thing is, in a moment of crisis, yelling often works. Let's face it, that's why we do it. There have been times when I've yelled out of sheer frustration over something that is not a big deal because I'm tired or hungry or just haven't taken care of myself. Fortunately, this happens less frequently as I get better at taking care of my own needs, recognizing when I'm about to explode and stepping away before I do. Then there have been times when I've yelled out of (I'll admit it) crappy parenting, because I lack a coherent long term strategy for dealing with a particular problem. And fortunately, this happens less frequently as I learn better how to work with my kids. Finally, there are times when I yell because preventing a short term disaster is really all that matters. After all, if your child is running into the street, it's not the time to say, "I think you're making bad choices, dear!" (Although, if your child runs into the street every day, it probably is time to get back to that long term strategy thing.)
Like yesterday, I'm eating my lunch when I hear Austen say, "No, stop that! Get off!" followed quickly by "Ow! Janie really hurt me!" I run into the other room to see Austen rolled from head to foot in a blanket, curled in a ball on the sofa. Janie is now sitting in a different part of the room drawing a picture as if nothing has happened, while Austen sobs quietly.
"Austen, what happened? What hurts?" Austen continues to cry, wordlessly.
"Janie, what happened?"
Janie looks up, and like a sullen teenager more than a six-year-old, says, "So-rry!"
"Janie, Austen is hurt and he's hiding. I need to know what part of him is hurt. Do you know?" (I'm pretty sure she ought to know, since I heard enough to know she caused it.)
"Well, he wasn't playing the game the right way and I just wanted him to move..."
"We can work on that later," I say, working to control my anger and anxiety, "When someone is hurt or sick, I need to pay attention to that first, and right now I need to know where is Austen hurt?"
Janie mumbles, "I don't know," while Austen continues to hide and sob. Austen's reactions to pain are hard to gauge; I've seen him unable to speak for fifteen minutes after a paper cut but go right back to playing after a bad fall and vice versa. So it could be nothing or it could be a broken bone. I wait until Austen finally begins to emerge, hugging his hands to his body and moaning, "She jumped on me!" So all 45 pounds of Janie have landed on... Some part of Austen.
"Yeah, well, I was climbing up like this...," Janie says, pushing past me to try to stand on the arm of the sofa.
"Janie, get down!" Austen is curled in my lap, and Janie is now standing behind my head, as I try to extract myself.
"And I wanted to jump down..."
"Janie, get down right now!" I say, firmly, as Janie inches to the back of the sofa, still standing, and teeters precariously where the back slopes to the tiny lip where she's balancing. For now, my body is between her and Austen, but my anxiety rises as I try to figure out how to get her down without leaving Austen vulnerable to having her fall (or jump) on him (again), especially since I still haven't determined how badly he's been hurt.
"But he wouldn't move..."
"Janie..."
"So I jumped on him!"
"GET DOWN NOW!!"
Janie plops straight (and safely) down onto her butt, bursts into tears and says, "You yelled at me!"
"Yes, I did. I don't like to yell, but it's my job to keep you and your brother safe. If you are doing something that might hurt you or someone else, yes, I might yell or grab you or do anything else I think I need to to keep you from getting hurt."
So, my magical yelling prevented the short term problem. And it bought me jumping-free time to determine that Janie had landed on Austen's finger, which was red but had been cushioned by the couch and so appeared to be bruised rather than broken. Now to work on a long term solution for avoiding situations like that in the first place. I'm thinking maybe I'll duct tape Janie to a chair until she's old enough to know better.
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