I was done.
Done asking The Cherubs to switch off the Wii in the basement and come upstairs for bedtime.
I had calmly beckoned to them. Twice. I had also flashed the lights off and on as a warning. A warning that had gone unheeded.
But I was NOT going to yell.
Nosirree. I’ve made plenty of mistakes on this trippy trip of parenthood, but if there’s one thing in which I take pride, it’s the fact that I seldom – practically never – raise my voice.
I’m better than that, friends. *crosses legs; pats at hair*
So? Instead of screaming down the stairs like my inner demon wanted to?
I began to knock on the wall, as if I were knocking on someone’s front door.
Gently. Politely. With the utmost of control.
And the knocking was ignored.
So my rapping on the wall grew in its intensity. Something that sounded like a woodpecker’s insistent tapping upon a tree trunk. And as I rapped, a recited a smug little mantra to myself in cadence the rhythm my knuckles tapped out upon the wall.
I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er. I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er. I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er.
And – wonder of wonders – The Cherubs continued to hoot and holler in front of the Wii, paying no attention to my rhythmic summoning.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to keep my desire to scream in check. And all of my suppressed screams were redirected into my fist, which now pounded on the basement wall with a force that The Cherubs would not be able to ignore, no matter how loud the Wii was turned up.
Yes. I am NOT one of those yelling moms. And I have the evidence to prove it.
Inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat’s Writers’ Workshop: ”Tell us about something you broke.”