You're Yelling At Me Isn't Going To Make Me Better

"You're yelling at me isn't going to make me better."  That was a favorite line of my coworker, Michael.  He was telling me a story about a volleyball team he played on a few years back.

Michael, it turns out, wasn't much of an athlete.  But when Bill asked him to join the office volleyball team, Michael thought it sounded like fun.  After all, it was a "rec" league.  That meant more focus on fun and less focus on competition.  Right?

Wrong.

What Michael didn't realize was that Bill was super competitive.  He wouldn't even let his heart race unless he was sure it would take first place.  So when Michael stepped onto the volleyball court and started to mishandle, miss play and just miss every ball, Bill started taking his role of team captain a bit too seriously.

"Come on! Move faster!" He yelled at Michael when a ball bounced a few feet outside Michael's reach.

"You have to hit harder!" He screeched when Michael's spike trickled over the net.

"Jump higher."  "Get that!"  "Move it!" Bill yelled and shouted.

It wasn't even halfway through the first match when Michael decided he'd had enough.  Michael had missed another ball and Bill was yelling, again.  Finally Michael looked Bill directly in the eye and said "You're yelling out me isn't going to make me better."  Bill was speechless.

Eventually Michael quit the team.  And so did a lot of the other players.  It turns out they didn't like being yelled at either.

Even though Michael told me this story over five years ago, it has stayed with me.  And I suppose its because the words are so true.  Yelling at someone rarely makes them better at what they are doing.

Yelling is also poor teaching tool.  Take the year I turned sixteen, for example.  My Dad decided he was going to teach me to drive.  I can still feel the tension in my neck when I think about it.  For about an hour a day Dad would yell at me to push the brake, I was going too fast.  He would shout at me to give it some gas, I was going too slow.  He would bark at me to turn right.  Then left. Then go straight.

I know Dad meant well.  He really thought yelling at me would make me a better driver.  But it didn't.  It made me timid and afraid.  And it turned what should have been a father-daughter bonding moment into a nightmare.  And the truth is that I didn't really learn to drive until AFTER I had my license and was able to practice by myself in a shout free environment.

So if yelling can't make people BE better.  And if yelling can't make people DO better, why did I just yell at my kids.

Ken and I tucked the kids in their beds over an hour ago.  We read them each a story.  We kissed them goodnight.  We wrapped them in their blankets.  Fifteen minutes later when I heard a shriek from Eric's (7) room, I jumped out of bed, stomped down the hall and threw open the door.  Emily (4) and Eric were both sitting on the floor with tears in their eyes.

"What happened." I barked.

"He hit me." Emily sobbed.

I glared at Eric.  "She broke my Lego ship." He whined.

"Get in your beds! Turn off your lights! And be quiet!" As I shouted Eric and Emily scattered.  I stomped back to my own room and flopped into bed. 

A few minutes later, I had the feeling I was being watched.  I turned over in bed and found Emily's standing next to the bed, peaking at me.  Her eyes were red and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

"Mommy, why were you so loud to me?"  She whimpered.

That's when I remembered Michael's story and the words "you're yelling at me isn't going to make me better."  Did I really believe yelling at my kids would make them better?  And wasn't there a better way to handle this situation?

I pulled Emily into my bed and hugged her.  "I'm sorry, Honey Bee." I whispered in her ear.  "I'll try and do better next time."

After Emily calmed down, I carried her back to her room.  I kissed her cheek.  I wrapped her in her pink blanket.  I patted her back.  Then I tiptoed out.  A few minutes later I repeated the process in Eric's room.

The house is quiet now, except for the clickety clack of my fingers on the key board.  In the morning, the kids will wake up.  They'll spill their orange juice all over the kitchen floor.  They drip pancake syrup on their jammies.  They'll poke and prod at each other until one of them yelps.

And when they do, I'll do my best to take a breath and keep my cool.  Cause I know that yelling isn't going to make them better at drinking orange juice.  Shouting isn't going to make them better at eating pancakes.  Screeching isn't going to tell them about being nice to sisters and brothers.

My yelling isn't going to make my kids better people.  And it isn't going to make me a better Mom.