In recent weeks, my household has been filled with a lot of noise—typical cries like “STOP TELLING YOUR BROTHER HE LOOKS LIKE A GIRAFFE!” and “GET OFF YOUR PHONE! YOU’VE BEEN IN THE BATHROOM FOR 45 MINUTES!” As the temperatures rise and windows fling open, it’s important to note that I live in close quarters with neighbors. A soccer ball kicked in any direction is sure to land in someone else’s yard, and I suspect my voice carries just as far.
I adore my children as much as I appreciate discounted holiday chocolates, but unlike a bag of stale candy hearts, my kids don’t seem to pay me any mind unless I crank my voice up to an ear-splitting level—around 120 decibels, which is significantly louder than a lawn mower’s 90 db for context. It’s a cacophony of screams: they yell at me, I yell back, and they scream at each other. As entertaining as it is, something needed to change for the sake of open-window season.
If you find yourself in a similar predicament, you might be curious about how to achieve this. Initially, I thought family therapy might help, and I began researching therapists as soon as the weather warmed. I still haven’t made an appointment, but to my surprise, the shouting has notably decreased in recent days.
Let me share how I managed this transformation. Bear in mind, I am not a mental health professional; I’m just a mom striving to help others keep their windows open during the summer months.
The Turning Point
The turning point occurred one Sunday evening around 7 p.m., following a sweltering weekend filled with lacrosse matches, baseball games, bouncy houses, ice cream trucks, and—this is out of character for us—horse grooming. So, in my attempt to be a responsible parent, I asked my six-year-old daughter, Lily, to take a shower. “I DON’T WANT TO!!” she protested, clearly in touch with her emotions. She had just received a stunning black, red, and green glitter tattoo of a burning rose on her forearm that afternoon.
“My TATTOO IS GOING TO COME OFF IN THE SHOWER!” she wailed as I helped her remove her clothes. I tried to reassure her, recalling past glitter tattoo experiences but drawing a blank. “I’m sure it’s waterproof,” I said, thinking that surely a tattoo would last a few days. “I promise.”
Moments later, she stepped into the shower, torn between fear and trust. While folding laundry in my bedroom, I suddenly heard a blood-curdling scream. “NOOOOOOO!” I leaned back in frustration, accidentally hitting my head against the wall. Pain shot through my skull, and I slumped into my pillows, curling into a ball.
“MOOOOOMMMMM!! I HATE YOU!!! YOU’RE SO MEAN!! THE TATTOO WASHED OFF!! IT’S GONE! YOU’RE THE WORST MOM EVER!” The sound reverberated throughout the house, echoing against the walls. I curled tighter, feeling sorry for myself as her lamentations punctuated the throbbing in my head.
When she emerged from the shower, she walked right past me, ignoring my moans for sympathy. Usually, she’s empathetic, but apparently, that tattoo was irreplaceable. I found myself genuinely crying—not due to the pain, but from frustration.
Then my son, Ethan, entered the room. Typically, he’s the one screaming at me, but today was different. He looked at me and asked, “What’s wrong, Mom?”
“I banged my head really hard,” I whined, drawing out the discomfort in a bid for sympathy. “Lily didn’t even care!”
He dashed into her room, exclaiming, “Do you know Mom banged her head, and you didn’t even ask how she was?!” relishing his role as the “good” sibling.
Lily rushed back to my side, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t know!” she sobbed (she definitely knew).
“I hit my head, and you walked right past me!” I lamented, wrapping the pillow around my head for effect. Seeing her guilt begin to eclipse her anger was a win.
It turned out that this “injury” disrupted our usual shouting routine. I found myself unusually calm, basking in the attention. They stood by my bedside, side by side, peering at me like I was a fragile creature in a zoo.
Normally, I have to repeat “brush your teeth” at least five times, escalating from a polite tone to a full-blown shout. But this time, when I asked them—muffled by the pillow—they simply went to brush their teeth. (Wait, what?)
“And get your pajamas on too!” I added weakly, testing my luck. They returned, teeth brushed and PJs on. “Mom, do you feel any better?” they inquired.
“A little,” I replied, though I meant more in terms of my spirits than the throbbing ache.
It was as if they were unfamiliar with my human side, the fact that I could experience pain, that I could be vulnerable rather than just a commanding presence. That night, they climbed into bed without a single squabble. The next morning, they even asked how my head felt (it still hurt, surprisingly, but I exaggerated a bit).
When I asked them to put on their shoes for school and they feigned ignorance, instead of raising my voice, I simply placed my hands on my (injured) head and quietly begged in a pitiful manner. At first, they looked puzzled. But then, guess what? They actually put on their shoes!
While I don’t recommend intentionally injuring yourself, the temporary relief this faux injury provided was absolutely worth it for the subsequent days of cooperation. If you want to savor the summer breeze and the sweet sounds of nature, consider faking an ailment. You can thank me later.
Further Reading
For additional insights on family dynamics, check out this article on home insemination kits. If you’re looking for expert guidance on IVF, visit this resource. For broader knowledge on pregnancy and home insemination, this website is an excellent resource.
In summary, the key to maintaining peace during open-window season may lie in embracing vulnerability and using it as a tool for gentle discipline. Instead of raising your voice, sometimes a little self-induced sympathy can go a long way in fostering cooperation among children.