From the time they could walk, both of my kids developed a fondness for emitting ear-shattering, high-pitched screams without provocation or notice. Often these occurred after they’d been quietly and happily playing on their own without requiring my supervision or attention.
Those moments were so rare that I’d find myself reluctant, at first, to actually luxuriate in the quiet. I’d hover in the next room, puttering at some task, my hearing tuned in for the first sounds of their restlessness, not yet quite convinced I could let my guard down and just rest.
But, of course, eventually I’d buy into the whole notion that they’d found some game or activity to keep themselves independently entertained. So I’d sit down, maybe with a book, maybe just to close my eyes. I’d pay attention to my breathing. I’d let my muscles relax. I’d sink in to the moment’s peacefulness and let my jaw unclench, my forehead grow smooth. Sometimes, I’d even start to nod off.
That’s when it would happen: “EEEEIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
It was never a squeal of delight, nor a giggle of glee nor any of those cute and whimsical little kid noises that used to send me running for a tape recorder (or, later, my cell phone with its digital voice memo recording) so I could capture the sound to replay someday in the far distant future when my kids had up and married and grown so rich that they could lock me away in a nursing home somewhere to be visited only on Mother’s Day (until they had kids of their own) and my birthday (assuming they weren’t vacationing in some exotic locale), and which I could force my fellow nursing home residents to listen to even though most of them were probably deaf or had mistaken a wad of gum for their hearing aids.
Nope, these were full out screams pitched so high it’s a wonder the windows never shattered while packs of dogs clamored through the openings and bayed in response. They were loud screams, too. Loud enough that I know for a fact our neighbors heard them, even though the unshattered windows were shut as well as the doors, even when our neighbors themselves were locked tight in their own homes with the air conditioner running and the television on and their own kids making their own noise.
I know this because once one of my neighbors mentioned hearing my daughter scream like she’d just seen the devil and wondered if she’d somehow been hurt, and of course I saw in their eyes the unspoken question of What on earth were you doing to that child, and do I need to call the authorities? So there I was trying to explain that my daughter had been playing with her Barbies when she decided to scream for no reason at all, and that this was a regular habit of hers, nothing to worry about, and see NOW maybe you people might understand why you so often find me sitting outside in the dark with a cocktail in my shaking hand after my kid’s gone to bed, eh?
Fortunately, my daughter stopped pulling that crap right around the time she hit puberty. Now that she’s 19, I have no idea if she’s picked up the habit again, and since she’s off living at college I don’t have to care, either. It’s her boyfriend’s problem now and, if you ask me, that’s a small price to pay for sleeping with my daughter. (Grrrrr.)
Unfortunately, the Big-Eyed Boy continues to emit similar random screams. I’m certain he acquired the habit after watching the effect his sister’s screams had on me. Throughout his life he’s been a loud child, even louder than my daughter, and no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, bribery or threats on my part has been able to turn down his built-in volume level. He whoops, he hollers, he picks up any semi-straight object and goes “pew, pew, pew” at the top of his lungs while shooting invisible bad guys. He flings himself down an entire flight of stairs, landing with a THUD that makes my ankles and knees hurt in sympathy, while shouting “COWABUNGA!” He hurls himself through our living room as he engages in imaginary mock battles between the Axis and the Allies which make those first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan (Widescreen Two-Disc Special Edition) seem quiet in comparison.
Of course, the very fact that I’m not typing this from a nice, padded room somewhere is proof that he does occasionally quiet down, and not just at bedtime. Most days, just when I think my nerves can’t be stretched any more tautly, he’ll take a long, slow breath and settle down with a book, or some paper and pens, or sometimes he’ll just sprawl on the sofa to watch cartoons. And he’ll shut up. By God, he’ll shut up.
I never quiet notice it right when it happens. I’ll be puttering around the kitchen or folding laundry or making beds and suddenly notice it’s quiet. At first I always assume he’s just catching his breath and I brace myself for the rambunctiousness to continue. Then five minutes pass, maybe ten. I’ll peek in to whatever room he’s in to make sure he’s actually still in the house, and that his silence isn’t due to having injured himself or the cat. He’ll look at me and smile, and inevitably I get suckered in by that little boy grin and will smile back at him before returning to whatever I’d been doing, my heart rate slowing and my tense muscles relaxing with every breath.
Then it happens: “EEEEIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
For. No. Reason.
Now, as you might have guessed, this is a large part of why I drink, specifically why I drink martinis: they’re efficient, and laudanum is illegal. But last month I decided I was going to go booze-free for the rest of the summer (though I no longer recall my exact reason), so I’ve been trying other ways to deal with the tension that comes from living in what basically feels like a war zone.
Long baths work well, particularly when I remember to turn on the whirlpool jets since they drown out most of the noise. Unfortunately, our water bill tripled after I began taking two, sometimes three such baths a day. So then I started doing daily yoga again, something I’d given up when school let out for the summer. The third time I’d managed to reach behind my head to grab the big toe of my right foot, while standing on my left foot, it happened again: “EEEEIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” and, of course, I immediately fell over, threw my back out of alignment and whacked my head on the floor hard enough to see stars. So much for yoga.
Last night, I finally opted for the Ice Cream solution. I hadn’t resorted to that since, well, since I’d been pregnant with the Big-Eyed Boy. But, still too sore to do yoga and too stubborn to go back on my summer-long no-booze ban, I decided it was time to sweet talk my husband into a grocery store run for the good stuff. And, since it was sweltering hot and I wasn’t about to fix dessert in a kitchen that felt like an oven, he was only too happy to oblige.
Little did I know, he’d decided not to take the Big-Eyed Boy along with him. I’d just assumed the kid would be eager to tag along so he could pick out his own Ben & Jerry’s. And, thinking I had the house to myself for a bit, I decided to relax, if only for the 15 minutes it would take VH to drive to the store and back.
There, in the quiet of my house, I stood in the center of my living room, opened my mouth as wide as I could and, filling my lungs to capacity, let out a big “EEEEIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” of my own.
“Holy crap, what was that?” came my son’s voice from his bedroom upstairs where, apparently, my husband had told him to play quietly while he was gone so Mommy could relax. Down the stairs he came flying, his eyes wide with terror, a look of sheer panic on his face as his gaze darted from me to the front door, then all around the room. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING LIKE THAT, MOM???” He was so freaked out he could hardly catch his breath, like he’d just been running a marathon or, oh I don’t know, like he’d been all relaxed and happy until someone let out a high pitched scream that just about gave him a heart attack.
Somehow, I managed not to giggle. “Nothing’s wrong,” I told him. “I just felt like doing that.” I shrugged and headed to the deck to smoke a cigarette and, okay, to laugh maniacally (if maniacs can laugh without making noise) over having for once put my kid through the same freak out that he subjects me to at least once per day.
So here it is, 11:30 in the morning, and for the first time since summer started I’ve gone all morning without hearing one single scream out of my kid. Call it ‘primal scream therapy’, if you want. I know I am. But it’s a good kind of therapy: screeching at the top of my lungs last night helped me de-stress (and, afterward that ice cream felt soooo good on my raw throat). I think it also managed to show my son how his screams make me feel every day and, while I’m sure he’ll forget eventually and go back to making those high-pitched “EEEEIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”s without warning, that’s okay.
I probably will, too.
