Thursday, July 22, 2010
I used to never raise my voice. If you asked Diana, in the history of our relationship, I think I’ve yelled maybe once. But I can’t even remember the reason. I much prefer the ancient martial art of passive aggression. Silently slumping and then mumbling, “Nothing,” when asked what’s wrong.
Even at work, where there are hundreds of reasons for me to raise my voice every day, I tend to blankly nod my head when I’m furious and then secretly spit in the offending person’s coffee when they’re not looking.
But over the last three years, I’ve become a yeller. Anymore, I find it’s the only way for me to get through the constant Star Wars theme that runs around Elijah’s brain.
“Eli, stand back from the TV. Eli, stand back from the TV. ELI! STAND BACK FROM THE TV!”
“Eli, get back in bed. Eli, get back in bed. ELI! GET BACK IN BED!”
And then the most I get from him is a casual glance in my direction. “Oh, did you say something, daddy?”
And it isn’t even the negative that gets me screaming.
“ELI WENT POO POO ON THE POTTY!”
“ELI, YOU ATE YOUR VEGETABLES? THAT’S AWESOME!”
“ELI! CURIOUS GEORGE IS ON!”
But honestly, I think it’s delaying my eventual heart attack. There is something so cathartic about standing on the top of the stairs and shouting, “I AM GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!”
My yelling hasn’t made it to the office yet. But as you can tell from my complete lack of posting this week that I may start adding it to my management style.
“ART DIRECTOR MATT CRAGNOLIN WENT POO POO ON THE POTTY!”