Last night, I indulged my sons and joined them for a game of Monopoly. It did not go well. That’s on me; I should have known. I think Monopoly’s tagline is “your night will be ruined!”
At the end of the game, due to typical Monopoly-based circumstances, my youngest exploded with rage and needed to have a major time-out. Later, when I was putting him to bed, we talked about his behavior, and how it made him feel, and how he needs to work on his temper. Then he told me I need to work on mine.
So I went APESHIT on him.
Just kidding!
I actually stayed remarkably calm, both during the game, all throughout his outburst, and afterward, when he called me out for yelling too much. Even though I hadn’t been yelling any time recently, I yell too often, and my kids notice.
So much so that they even think about it when I’m not doing it.
When I was a teenager, I used to spend a lot of time at my friend Steve’s house. His parents were often not around—his mom was a nurse who had erratic hours, and his dad tended to stay holed up in his bedroom upstairs—so it was a good place to hang. The problem arose when we wanted to go hang somewhere else, and my friend had to go upstairs and ask his dad.
We rarely saw his dad, but on those occasions when my buddy needed to let him know he was heading out, we always heard him. The man was a capital-Y Yeller. When it was time to leave, we would head towards the door, and Steve would head upstairs to take his medicine. The rest of us would wait in the hallway, listening to Steve’s dad bluster and rage for a minute or two, and then Steve would bound down the stairs like nothing had happened and we’d be off.
As insane as it was to hear all that yelling, it barely fazed our friend at all, which seemed even more insane. For us, visiting his house was like visiting a warzone; we braced for battle every time we went to pick him up, and often we’d sit around and kill time in his family room, delaying our exit just because we didn’t want to go through the trauma again.
Not that Steve - the person at whom the yelling was directed - much cared. He had gotten so used to it, it just rolled off his back. It didn’t impact his behavior, or prevent him from coming out and doing whatever it is we did back then. What was scary to us was just white noise to him.
I’m not there—yet.
Raising my voice started as a way to express my disapproval and/or to get my kids’ attention when nothing else would, and in those ways it’s still effective. But while my yelling isn’t white noise to my kids, it is damaging my relationship with them. I need to stop before it gets to the point that I’m yelling just to yell, filling the house with sound and fury that truly does signify nothing.
I don’t want my kids to grow up in a warzone.
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Pop Culture Stuff
I feel like not much is popping with pop culture these days. Dog days of summer and all. I did finally finish The Bear and would like season three to start tomorrow, thank you. I watched Infinity Pool (by myself; Mom and Buried would not appreciate it), a horror flick from body-horror maestro David Cronenberg’s son. It featured some definite body horror and was equal parts interesting and weird and gross and silly. It reminded me a little bit of Primer, even though the subject matter - and the quality of the films - is very different. (Primer is masterpiece.)
I also saw The Strokes in concert and that was fun, as usual. I’ve seen them six times now, going all the way back to their legendary double-bill with The White Stripes at Radio City in 2002, and they always deliver. Next up: Chappell Roan in October!
Also next up, season two of Buffy with my son. I’m equal parts excited and terrified to show him that season’s centerpiece episodes, which focus on Angel and pivot around sex. But hey, it was basic cable. He’ll be fine! Those were actually the first episodes I ever saw of the show (when they actually aired), and they were so good I caught up with the first season and never looked back.