Every parent has that one behavior from their kids that pushes them to the brink of sanity. For some, it’s the presence of sticky fingers on furniture, while others can’t stand fibbing or the dreaded tattling. For me, it’s the sound of screaming.
Now, let me clarify—I’m not talking about the joyful shrieks that erupt during a fun playdate, nor the inevitable yelling that comes with tired kids in a grocery store. No, my issue lies with the raw, unfiltered scream that feels more suited to a horror flick than a family home. That high-pitched sound sends my body into a panic, triggering my fight-or-flight response. I literally feel the urge to summon help, like I’m on the lookout for an emergency responder. It’s my personal pet peeve, and my kids are well aware that screams are off-limits unless there’s a real threat—like a stranger lurking or a wild animal on the prowl.
Reflecting on my childhood, I realize I wasn’t allowed to scream either, and yes, I recognize how that has influenced my parenting style. Growing up in a remote area meant that screaming was reserved for genuine emergencies. Thankfully, I never had to unleash that pent-up scream for a real crisis, but knowing it was there gave me a sense of security. My parents would have instantly recognized that my scream was a call for help, not just a dramatic performance.
Now, as I raise my two kids in the woods—home to bears, mountain lions, and even overly bold squirrels—I can’t help but feel the weight of responsibility. I work from home and let them play outside, where I can keep an eye on them. However, the unpredictability of nature means I need to ensure they have a way to alert me in case of danger. They know they can laugh, shout, and play, but if a scream pierces the air, I’ll be there in a flash. They better have a good reason, or they’ll face my wrath.
It never fails to amaze me that some parents seem unfazed by their children’s screams. Just the other day at the park, a little girl was wailing at the top of her lungs, while her mother casually chatted with friends, oblivious to the chaos. My heart raced at the thought of what might be happening. Was she in trouble? Would her mother even notice?
To those parents who aren’t bothered by screaming, I have a million questions. Do you allow your kids to scream just because they’re kids? Do you feel like you’d be stifling their spirit if you stepped in? Do you eventually tune it out? Or perhaps you practice meditation to stay calm? Because I can assure you, my ears are ringing over here.
Sure, I could probably stand to chill out, but the screaming issue is now so deeply ingrained in my psyche that unraveling it would likely require extensive therapy. However, I’m not sure I want to change. My kids don’t need to scream. I’m not denying them a crucial aspect of childhood by ensuring they have a reliable way to signal danger, especially when they’re out enjoying nature.
I doubt I’m repressing anything in them, except perhaps the likelihood that they’ll also find screaming unbearable when they become parents. And honestly, I’m okay with that.
They can howl at the moon, belt out songs, play their instruments until I’m on the verge of a migraine, or even scream into a pillow as a healthy release. But those real screams? Those should be reserved for genuine threats. And I, for one, would appreciate a life free from constant adrenaline spikes.