2014 was a particularly loud year for me -- mostly from me, really. With each passing month, my voice ratcheted up louder and nastier as it torpedoed my husband, my colleagues and most unjustly, my kids. Why was I yelling so much? I have no fucking idea. My life is packed with uncountable, undeserved riches. "Grateful" doesn't even approach how I feel. The screaming was a pattern that went unchecked, then went wild.
On January 2 of this year, just moments before I dove into that black, black hole of despair that follows a full-throttle yell fest, I turned to my oldest son, Primo, and asked what he'd think if I made a New Year's resolution -- which I never do -- not to scream at him and his brother all year long. He told me he thought it'd be very difficult for me. Maybe I should take it one day at a time. He's 5.
As of today, it's been 13 days of a wholly new reality for me and for my household. Repeating my mantra, "No Scream '15," I watch my boys ramp up, slug each other, cry, get over it and quickly move on.
"No Scream '15" I say to myself, waiting patiently as our tiniest tyrant, Truman, does everything beside the one thing he's been asked to do. Ultimately, he either does it, or doesn't do it. And the world is still fine. In fact, the world is sort of glittery because I know what I would've done in 2014. It was so ugly and, as it turns out, so unnecessary.
I reserve the right to scream in moments of danger, and to give myself a time out if I need to retreat to my room and howl my face off into a pillow. Beyond that, I'm enjoying this ride way too much to yell it off the tracks.
Granted, it's only been 13 days, but 13 is my lucky number, and if I can pull off 12 more months of this, then the only screams you'll hear out of this yap will be squeals of pure wonder and joy.