On Yelling

My little baby darlings:

Right now, you know I love you, but mother of God you both yell so much. In the bathtub, at the park, at the dinner table, in the CAR, you both only have one volume and it is LOUD. You yell and scream at me, at each other, when you're angry, when you're happy, when you're breathing, you yell.

I used to think it had something to do with day care, but you both are in schools where yelling is quite frowned upon. Anna Claire, you even talk about your inside voice and using it with your friends.

I've seen both of you in action at your respective schools.

Samuel, I've watched you through your school window before picking you up early from school.

Your little school desks are in a U-shape around the classroom. You and the other 18 students in Ms. Bott's Kindergarten class all work silently on your afternoon math. You're sitting in your usual pose, with one leg under your bottom as if you're ready to jump up at a moment's notice. With one hand on your forehead and the other laboring away at fractions, your little eyebrows scrunch and you pursed lips are just that: closed. And you're so busy you've got nothing to say.

Anna Claire, through the many times I've watched you from your preschool doorway, I've never seen you silent. But quiet? Yes. You speak with your friends in a voice no louder than a whisper. You're so quiet, in fact, from the doorway I can't even hear your sweet little voice. I see you, with your friends in a semicircle, pointing at the copy of  Brown Bear, Brown Bear you've strategically placed in your lap so the other children can see the pictures as you point to the words. The teacher tells me you're the little reader in the class. You'll pick up the books, the kids will sit around you, and you'll ask them questions about the text.

So I've seen you quiet. I've seen you both - focused and attentive. You're both in your elements and you're serene.

I'm not sure what happens but from the class to the car but some transformation takes place and within five minutes, you're max volume.

It used to make me wonder if there was something wrong with me. What was I doing or not doing to make you think all this noise was necessary?

I began to think about times I yell (which is not often). I yell when I'm hurt. I yell when I'm startled. I yell when I'm excited.

I yell when I'm most alive. And so do you. And you'll learn not  to yell out of anger at one another because I'll be sure to teach you how that hurts and doesn't help. But as for the rest of your noise? I'm realizing it is all the noise of life. And you both are so fully alive right now - so full of energy you're unable to restrain yourself when you see something new or fascinating or funny or good.

And it's how you should be.

 Somewhere along the journey of life, we adults are taught to tone it down - to find life mundane. And we begin to believe people and experiences should earn our fascination, our laughter, our noise. Gaps and cracks form dividing lines between our souls, our bodies, and our minds.

All of the sudden, we must always criticize, critique, judge, and filter. We experience everything through a sophisticated lens designed to temper our responses. In some respects, this is a beneficial. If I elbow jabbed as a gut reaction every time someone offended me, you'd probably only see me in orange through a plexiglass window.

But constantly filtering all experiences through the mind? All experiences?

Here's what I'm finding: in intellectualizing all experiences, I lose. In deeply spiritual moments, in intensely physical moments, something gets lost and while I'm in my head, measuring the appropriate response, the moment passes, and I'm too distracted by my own thoughts to truly live.


So, I'm going to do my very best to let you yell - to let you run like crazy and scream your head off. And instead of stopping you (unless you're running into oncoming traffic), I'll run and scream with you. And we'll experience life together.