On learning the other day I would be laid up with an ankle in plaster for 28 more days, I announced I was seeking a project. Find me a job in Vancouver, asked one friend, organise my CDs and DVDs, asked another. Update your CV. Write a novel. Good ideas, but they didn't grab me.
But there it was in today's paper, a ready-made 28-day challenge that parents throughout Australia were being invited to sign up for by the Essential Kids website. Try not to shout at your kids. For 28 whole days.
Now, I am not someone who needs to shout to get the message across. But I do like to shout. Perhaps it's a small woman thing.
I admire people who don't shout at their kids, or shout at anyone. Sometimes. At other times I just want to shout at them. Shouting is good. At least for the shouter. But clearly the shoutee might not enjoy the experience. Hence the Essential Kids website call for quiet.
Not shouting at kids seems a bit like negotiating with them. And that always ends in tears.You just need to tell kids what to do. They mightn't like it, but one day they'll grow up and shout at kids of their own.
My favourite shouter was a former neighbour Mrs Yates, who smoked Winnie reds and lived in her chenile dressing gown. She'd stand at the top of the stairs and holler: "If youse bloody kids don't bloody shut up I'll get my bloody thong off to ya". At least she was talking about footwear.
Another neighbour (I lived in a shouting neighbourhood) would simply run through the list of family members names at the top of her voice from her front verandah at dinner time. Lenny! Paul! Gary! Julie! Lisa! Donna! Paul! And it always set our dog off, so my brother got to shout at him."Shuddup ya mongrel. Get round the back!"
My parents didn't do much shouting. Dad employed the swish of a green tree switch, mum the silent treatment. I probably did all the shouting, even back then.
But for 28 days, I'm not shouting at the kids. If only the deal extended to them not shouting at each other. Perhaps we can negotiate.
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