Old Yeller

I yell. I do. I can be a yeller. I am a loud person, and I know it.  I wrestle almost everyday with my own personal volume control issues, and for the most part, I win.  I keep it under control and I am not nearly the yeller I could be. I am proud of myself.

This past weekend, we began a huge makeover on my daughter’s room.  I decided to start this task at 6pm on a Sunday. I know, I know, I just heard the collective sigh of all Mothers (and some Dads) out there who are bewildered by the fact that I would start any lengthy project on a Sunday at that late hour.  I think I even heard a couple of you mutter “Is she crazy?” under your breath.

My daughter and I started this project together. It would be ‘fun’, I thought.  She was ecstatic to have a say in how the room would be transformed, picking out new bedding, pictures for the walls and the choosing of the paint color, a beautiful calming shade of powder blue.

Calming, my foot.  For some reason, I approached this project with the optimism that I would NOT lose my cool.  Why would I expect that?  All projects that run the risk of becoming potential disasters make me uncomfortable.  So uncomfortable, that I can feel my blood pressure rise at the mere thought of them. This is genetic.

I wish I was different.  I want to be the Mom that scoffs at paint spilled on the carpet.  I want to be the Mom that dances around with a paintbrush in her hand not worrying about the splatter. I want to be the Mom that my daughter will tell stories of to her friends underlining how much fun we had decorating her room.  I am not always that Mom.  I am a potential yeller.  So at the first sign of paint on the carpet, I go from calm to not so calm, and I regret it.

The painting part of the make-over, went relatively well, except for one faux pas.  My daughter decided to drag a drop cloth with the paint tray and roller on it along with her as she moved to start a new wall, instead of laying a new one down as I had told her to do.  So, essentially, she should have seen my ‘not so calm’ reaction coming, when her actions resulted in the drop cloth getting doused with paint, some of it winding up on the rug. A pretty good sized mess was the result.  So, I yelled at her. I was not proud of myself. Then I reminded her, still above the normal tone of voice, how she did not listen to what I had said about the drop cloth.  That was it.  But that was enough, her face crunched up and she started to cry. Probably due more to the fact that her cream colored carpet now had powder blue splotches all over it, than my yelling.

I sat down in the corner of the room with her, we hugged, and I explained that I was not pleased that I had made the choice to yell at her and that I was also not happy that this painting project did not make me happy.  I tried to explain that, although I loved her profusely and thoroughly enjoy any time spent with her, projects like this were, more often than not, not fun for me.  I want them to be.  But they are not. I essentially explained, through this chat to my 11-year-old daughter, what a control freak was and I owned up to being one. A big one.

My daughter and I moved on, I finished the painting alone and then together we set out for bigger and better things in the way of picking out curtains and curtain rods.

In the days since, I have thought about my yelling. I wonder what a child’s life would be like if their parents never yelled at them.  What a wonderful concept. What would happen though, when they were thrust into the real world, where bosses would not only yell at you for spilling paint on the clients’ floor, but would also fire you for your carelessness.  Would my child be at a disadvantage if she was never yelled at or would her life be blissful?  Does yelling toughen them up a bit? Does being yelled at make you better able to cope later on in life or does being hollered at chip away at you emotionally? I do yell, and when I do, I usually follow it with an apology, only for losing my cool, not for being upset with my children and their actions.

With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I will celebrate with my children the wonderful thing that is motherhood. It is truly magical, as I will never love anyone more than I love my children. As Mothers, we can do our kids a great service by forgiving ourselves when we make mistakes and not being so hard on ourselves for the things that we regret.

During my motherhood, I will continue to provide unconditional love and caring to my children. I will chauffeur, volunteer, scrub stains out of clothes (or carpet),  relearn math that I have forgotten, memorize state capitals (again), cry at graduations, proms and triumphant sporting events.  I will pace the floor at night worrying, jump at phone calls, scrutinize boyfriends and girlfriends and make eyes roll. I will always offer my life to save theirs…all with a hearty yell thrown in every once in while, for good measure. 

Happy Mother’s Day.