Every parent has that one behavior from their kids that pushes them to their limits. For some, it’s the sight of a booger, while others can’t stand lying or snitching. For me, it’s the sound of screaming.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not talking about the joyful yelps that come with playtime (I’m not a monster, after all). Nor am I referring to the occasional yelling that occurs when kids are cranky after a long day. I’m specifically addressing the kind of screaming that feels entirely unnecessary, the kind that sends a chill down my spine and ignites my fight-or-flight instincts. It’s that bloodcurdling shriek that feels more fitting for a horror film than my living room. My reaction to it is so intense that I often find myself searching for the nearest first responder.
Due to this visceral response, my children understand that screaming is reserved for true emergencies—like if a stranger tries to abduct them, or a wild animal threatens their safety, or if they’ve somehow fallen into a well.
Growing up, I was never allowed to scream, and while I recognize that this may have influenced my parenting style, I believe it was for good reason. My childhood was spent in a remote area where screams needed to be saved for genuine peril. Thankfully, I never had to use that scream, but I knew it was there for me if I ever needed it. My parents would’ve recognized that sound as a signal for help, not as mere dramatics.
Now, as I raise my kids in a woodland environment filled with bears and other potentially dangerous wildlife, the importance of that scream is amplified. My children often play outside while I work from home. I can see and hear them most of the time, but the unpredictability of nature means I can’t always anticipate an emergency. They know they can laugh, shout, and play, but if they scream, I’m on high alert. And trust me, I’ll be less than pleased if it turns out to be a false alarm.
I often find it puzzling that some parents don’t mind their kids’ screaming. Just the other day at the park, a little girl was at the top of a climbing frame, screaming at the top of her lungs while her mother casually chatted with friends. My heart raced; the child sounded as if she were in distress. What if she actually was? How would her mother even know?
For those parents who remain unfazed by the sound of screaming, I have to ask—do you think of it as a natural part of childhood? Are you concerned about stifling their self-expression? Or has it become background noise that you’ve learned to tune out? Because, for me, it feels like nails on a chalkboard.
I understand if I need to chill out—perhaps I do. But I can’t shake the feeling that my aversion to screaming is deeply ingrained. However, I’m not inclined to change it. My kids don’t need to scream; I see no harm in establishing a way for them to alert me in case of danger, especially when they’re exploring the great outdoors.
I’m confident that I’m not repressing anything vital in their upbringing, except maybe the possibility that they too will dislike it when their children scream one day. And I’m okay with that.
They can yell at the moon, belt out songs, and play instruments until I’m on the brink of a headache, or even scream into a pillow if they need to vent. But when it comes to genuine danger, those screams must be saved for just that. I’d like to avoid having my adrenaline pumping constantly.
In summary, the rule in our home about screaming serves a purpose: it ensures that when a real emergency occurs, my children have a way to alert me without causing unnecessary panic. After all, it’s about creating a safe environment while allowing for joyful expression in every other way.
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