The Fine Art of Punishment

I swore that when I became a mother, I wouldn't become a yeller. I grew up in a family where all of the women were yellers. If a child misbehaved, the next step was to yell, to make them listen. I'm not implying that the women in my family were always screeching mothers, but there were a lot of us, and the children don't listen well. Fortunately, there were a lot of hugs and kisses to offset all of the yelling. Growing up as one of those children, I promised myself that I would observe restraint, and punish misbehaving children with patience and logic.

A few years later, I observed the opposite of my upbringing. I was in Brookline, sitting outside of a boutique toy store. The mother had a 3 to 4 year old with her who was clearly angry because she denied him some sort of toy. The child carried on and screamed and stomped. The mother would quietly walk over, crouch down and try to have a logical conversation with him. This simply resulted in him yelling more and him running another 25 feet away. Imagine this scenario repeated 6 times. For me, it was yet another example of how not to reprimand.

Here I am four years and two boys later and I have yet to find the sweet spot. I understand that yelling all of the time doesn't necessarily help. Additionally, I get tired of yelling. I also understand that logic doesn't work with a stomping 20 month old. I can now understand why mama cats swat their kittens, and why others eat their young. My boys have the ability to get me to the last ounce of patience.

Today has been a yelling day. I swear they had a conversation in their bedroom this morning on alternating getting into trouble. If one is behaving, the other is not. I walked upstairs to move a load of laundry, and came down to this.

I think I need another coffee.