My son yelled at me today. I was totally delighted. What kind of wacky life am I leading, anyway? My son yells at me and I couldn't possibly be more happy.
I've been trying to get Oliver to turn up the volume on his voice for some time now. He will sit in the back seat of the car quietly saying, to no one in particular, "I want music." He'll say it over and over again until someone notices and turns the music on. So I've been coaching him to say: "MOM!!! Turn the music on!" And about 50% of the time he will, eventually call out to me in this way if I ignore him long enough. One day he even said: "MOM!! I need the potty!" Needless to say I found a bathroom tout de suite.
So, before I finish telling this little tale I might as well admit to being a yeller. I really try not to, but man, when you've told a kid one million times in a five minute period to get his grimy hands out of the sugar, flour, couscous (insert whatever messy substance you'd like) and you find him sneaking over to the pantry cupboard again, well, you might yell too. Or maybe not. Because if I thought you did then continuing to flagellate myself for being one of the all-time worst mothers on the face of the planet would just not be as much fun. A yeller, god help me. I've become a yeller. But I'm really, really, really, really, really working on it. There. OK. So. ....
Anyway, Oliver was at the back door today suspending himself gecko-like by holding onto the handle on either side of the door and griping each side of the door with his knees and feet. It is quite a feat and I wish I had a picture of it because you would be amazed. And while my pride in his gross motor skills swells every time I see him do this, my more practical side is also recalling that the storm door on the front door now needs to be replaced for this very reason. Storm doors are not made to carry an extra 55 pounds like that. So when I asked Oliver for the third time in a minute and a half to knock it off, only to be ignored, I did what any good yeller would do: I ratcheted it up a notch. "Oliver," I yelled, "get away from the door!" And without missing a beat, Oliver turned to me and yelled back: "I want to go outside!"
Naturally, my anger faded away to amusement, then pride. I have a little yeller on my hands. A chip off the old block. And I couldn't be happier.