I believe one of the reasons my wife first fell in love with me was my Steve McQueen-like driving skill. There was one event in particular when, with her sitting shotgun, I deftly raced around a wildly spinning truck on the 101 freeway. I calmly and coolly sped up rather than slamming on the brakes, which I’d rapidly calculated would have placed us right into the path of the rogue vehicle as it slammed into a concrete barrier. If you’re trying to picture my maneuver, I’ll just tell you, yes, it was totally badass.
As that illustrates, emergency situations don’t faze me. What does faze me, however, is loud noises. Not like loud music. No, I mean random blasts of sound — a book falling off a table, a door slamming and, unfortunately, a baby screaming. I know, I know. Someone who reacts badly to loud noises deciding to have a kid is like a man with no fingers deciding to become a gunslinger. And I have two… babies, that is, not fingers.
I had no delusions about how often babies scream/cry/wail. For you future parents, babies don’t just scream when they’re upset. If my guys are any gauge, wee ones scream when they’re happy, eating, playing, walking, crawling, getting dressed, opening the toy chest or just because it’s Thursday. I thought that kind of immersion would help cure me of the problem. As you might expect, it just aggravated it. I feel like I’m constantly telling the boys “Keep it down,” “Use your inside voice,” “Quiet now, guys” or “Honey, where’s that bottle of Glenfiddich I just bought?”
But last night, I stumbled upon a rather unorthodox coping method. Wyatt started screaming when I put him on the changing pad, so I started screaming with him. Every time he opened his mouth to let one fly, I did too. He thought it was hysterical and it kept me from stressing out. Perhaps, rather than forcing my boys to act more reserved, I need to act more youthful. I’m going to try shitting my pants next.
