In my family, when the women get together, the men often joked (lamented, complained, laughed) that if they wanted to be heard they had to speak fast and LOUD in order to get a word in edgewise. It wasn’t entirely untrue – my sister, mom and I can certainly talk quite fast, and quite loud while we laugh and joke and tease and scold and roll eyes and all manner of other expressions.

We’re loud.
I’m loud.

We’re very Irish, we wear our emotions on our sleeves, across our faces, in our voices, in our actions – and not just the happy ones either.

Over the past week or so, the internets have been all a-twitter (hahahaha!) about yelling at their kids. It’s not the first time this has been a subject of conversation either – the NYT parenting blog hosted a story of a mom who yelled at her kids and threw some crayons back in January. This mother worries that she has scarred her kids by scaring them, and that it’s irreparable, though she apologized to them later and turned it into a “learning experience”.

So – she yelled, threw something on the floor, walked away and she think she’s a bad parent. Excuse me for a moment.

[hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!]

Naturally, there are pages and pages of comments ranging from the fact that it’s borderline abusive, to how it’s ok not to be a perfect parent. Stories of yelling by their parents and ‘continuing the cycle’ as well as more frightening tales (to me) of a father who “ignores the bad behavior.” She’ll eventually grow out of the need to tear all the pages out of my books and breaking her toys and putting holes in the walls, right?

Dude. Seriously. Why is this even a debate? EVERYONE parents their child differently. (Granted, if most parented like me, your kids would be just as awesome as mine, but then who would my kids beat up?) Why do we think everyone has to react and parent and teach the exact same way, to kids who are each individually different and respond completely different to identical situations? No two kids in the same FAMILY are the same, let alone there existing a universal medium.

So let me give you some advice here. You can take it or leave it, you can applaud or curse, either way – it’s my blog and I’m gonna give you some awesome advice, ok? Are you ready? Here we go:

It’s OK to lose your shit in front of your kids.

Now I’m not telling you it’s ok to chase them down the hall with a belt screaming obscenities at them or anything extreme, but kids have to learn that we parents are human too. We get pushed to a limit, backed into a corner, and sometimes – JUST LIKE THEM – we lose our shit. We yell, we curse, we throw things, we tell them that if we have to have this talk ONE MORE TIME we’re gonna LOSE OUR DAMN MINDS.

Is it gonna startle them? Yes. Is it gonna terrify them? Possibly. (…and what kinda pansies you raisin’ over there anyway?!) Is it gonna scar them for life? No.

My real problem with this is the expectation that to be a perfect parent, we have to reach some ultimate zen-like calm where nothing ever ruffles our feathers, and our children become perfect little angels automatically. It’s not automatic. A young boy will reach for a flame. He’s not going to respond to “oh no sweetheart, that’s hot, please don’t…oh dear, someone call 911.” He WILL respond to a sharp “NO!” and perhaps a swat on the butt to get his attention. A determined young boy will touch that flame anyway, but will think twice about doing it again. (guess which boy mine was, go on – GUESS.)

All the talking in the world, sometimes, does not get through to my teenagers. And they know when I’ve reached the end of my rope. I am a yeller. I slam doors. I remove privileges. When they were young, I spanked. I also pull out the big guns, when it’s really needed – the “I’m disappointed in you” speech. And then we talk some more.

Do I apologize for yelling? Sometimes. Do I think I’m doing them irreparable harm by rising my voice? Not at all. Have I lost the respect of my children? Not in the least.

Most importantly: Do we still love and trust and show our affection as easily as our ire? Absofuckinlutely.

For all the times I’ve yelled, I know that there are far more times that I’ve grabbed them in a hug, that I’ve told them I love them, and am proud of them. For all the doors I’ve slammed, I know there’s far more doors I’ve opened for them, by teaching them that it’s ok not to be perfect, as long as you love each other and resolve to work together to solve whatever problem got you to that point. For all the privileges they lost for a time, I know that they have gained a greater sense of responsibility rather than loss, and it will serve them far better once they have stepped into the world where I can no longer protect them.

We laugh, we cry, we scream, we go disappointingly silent. And we yell.

In fact, just this morning I yelled at The Pup down the street as she waited for her bus. It sounded like this:

“HAVE A GOOD DAY AT SCHOOL! I LOVE YOU! GET THAT HOMEWORK THIS TIME!”

She yelled back, too – finishing off with a roll of her pre-teen eyes, I’m sure – and I’m perfectly OK with that.

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