The Day I Didn't Yell

Last week I went an entire day without yelling at my kids.

I didn't yell when we were sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for a prescription and my youngest son Jack (just shy of two years old) grabbed his older brothers mitten and made a mad dash across the lobby and out the front revolving doors, shrieking in pure joy as he looked behind him and realized his brother was chasing him.

Or when hospital security had to lock-down the doors for several minutes to prevent him from running into the parking lot, and then escorted him back to me kicking and screaming.

I didn't yell when my boys pressed every single button on the elevator.

I didn't yell when they refused to wear winter hats in 18 degree weather, instead donning baseball caps. 

Or when they removed their shoes on the car ride (and threw them into the front seat, narrowly missing my head) all while hysterically laughing at each other’s antics.

Or even when they dumped approximately 1,057 Lego's onto the carpet then threw them in the air to "make it rain" seconds before I was going to vacuum it, and minutes after I picked them up in the first place.

I didn't yell when my oldest son Colin (who is almost 4… and knows better) fished a Reece peanut butter cup out of the trash and popped it into his mouth. And I didn't yell when I put two and two together and realized the peanut butter cup came from the trash… because not only did he have a half-eaten peanut butter cup in his hand, but a mouthful of blue paint (which I had discarded in the trash moments earlier from our morning art project).

I didn't yell when I attempted to wash off the blue paint, and literally had to wrestle Colin to the ground to get every drop cleaned off his lips, teeth, and face with a paper towel.  Or when a few splatters stained (permanently I'm sure, as my laundering skills are sub-par) his new Christmas PJs.

I didn't yell when naps were refused, lunches were left untouched and sippy cups were catapulted across the kitchen.

I didn't yell when the boys played catch...with my iPhone. Or when they flipped every last pillow off the couches to create an obstacle course. Or even when they pushed the kitchen chairs over to the counter to scavenge for cookies, candy canes, or anything they could get their hands on (you get hungry when you don't eat lunch...) 

No, I didn't yell once.

And this all happened before 11:45am. 

I wish I could say it's because I'm patient, or that I'm understanding. Or that I'm this amazing mom of two who can keep her cool in any situation. Or that it was Christmas Eve (which is was) and I was filled with holiday spirit. But that’s not the case.

The truth?

I lost my voice.

I literally, physically, couldn't yell. When I tried (which trust me, I did) nothing came out.

I could barely talk. Every word I uttered hurt.  So I was forced to choose them wisely.

And it made all the difference in the world.

In each of these situations (which are not isolated by any means) I thought before I spoke, carefully deciding how to handle the given circumstance in the least amount of spoken words possible. I calmly whispered to the boys. I didn't fly off the handle, or send them to their rooms. Or let myself get worked up, angry, and upset. I didn’t raise my voice.  Or mutter swear words under my breath, which I clearly don’t mutter quietly enough, because the boys love to bust out an enthusiastic “damn-it” every so often. 

I said what I needed to say and we moved on. I was calm.  The boys were calm.  For the moment, life in general was calm...and I thought to myself, why can't it always be this way? Why is it easier to yell than speak thoughtfully and with purpose? I'm not sure I can answer that, but I've been making a conscious effort over the past week to pause, gather my thoughts, and then deal with the given situation. 

While I'd like to say I will never resort to yelling again, I know I'm setting myself up for certain failure.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not some hot-headed mom who yells constantly, but I do have two rowdy, rambunctious boys, and sometimes, a loud, stern voice is required to keep them in line. 

My lost voice allowed me to step back and truly understand the impact of my words, my tone, and how the way I project myself affects the two boys who mean the most to me.

And for the record, even if I physically could have, I wouldn't have yelled at Colin for eating the peanut butter cup out of the garbage can...I would have been laughing too hard and too loudly at the blue paint covering his face to even begin to scold him .

- Laura