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The thing is, there's no simple trigger for those high-pitched sounds, either. Sure, getting into groups of 3 kiddos can set off decibels that shatter stemware, but over what? Is it the thrill of playing dolls that makes girls start shrieking? Or is it the pursuit of becoming Alpha Pre-Schooler that is the issue-- they can't out last, out wit and out play, so they deafen the competition into submission?
I kinda thought, for a fleeting moment in my early 20's, that it might be cool to be a super star, à la The Beatles (Justin Beiber was busy being conceived when I was in my 20's so I couldn't use him as my role model). I rented a VHS copy of Hard Day's Night and barely made it through the credits before I realised that it would, indeed, by a hard day's night if I had to listen to all that shrieking, screaming, bawling and general emotional overload whenever someone saw me. I wanted fame, yes, but I wanted the stoic, Olympic-Gold type, not the ... well, blubbering at high pitches.
And yet, as I donned my trench coat and fake moustache to throw my kids of the trail, I realised I have become just that: I am a superstar in my own home; I was completely surrounded by screaming, bawling, running, chasing fanatics that desperately wanted me to touch them to make their lives better. Say what?
The pterodactyls screeched all around me, but because I was absolutely, perfectly still, and wearing a disguise, no one knew it was me. They screamed. They bawled. (Kiddo #2 actually stomped his wee feet like he was furiously running in place, which was awful and comical at the same time.) I didn't flinch. I knew they could smell fear, so I closed my eyes and did some deep breathing exercises (I think they're asanas, but Wikipedia is down today to protest SOPA so I can't confirm what I did with the actual, correct term. How's that for showing how little I know and how dependent I am on the internet/WIKIPEDIA FOR MY FACTS? Sad day.)
Right, so using my proficient ventriloquy skills, (ps, I spelled ventriloquy right the first time!! That's kinda fantastic!!) I was able to throw my voice to the piano who then said, "Each of you knows two languages. If you want to speak with your mother, you need to use one of them."
If I hadn't been there, I would never have believed my eyes. Instantly, my two flapping dinosaurs stopped screeching and calmly said, "Momma, can I have a snack?" (the baby said, "Dada, DeeDee, Up Peas!" but that's what he meant).
I tossed a ball in the other direction to divert their attention, ripped off my fake glasses/nose/moustache and trenchie and "magically" appeared "out of no where" with a smile. We all had a laugh about how I went missing and who was the guy in our house with the moustache. It ended like any good 30 minute sitcom should.
And then, this morning, when I dropped Kiddo #2 at his second week of nursery school, a strange thing happened. This kiddo, who is independent and wants to do everything all by himself; this kiddo who knows no fear and loves to jump off the back of the couch, or surf on the hall carpet while I pull it back into place, wouldn't let go of my legs when I put him down.
I picked him up once I'd placed his various accessories in their various locations. He clung to me like he didn't want me to go. And, for the first time in my life, that pterodactyl scream that drives me crazy, that deafens me and incites rage in my heart, actually made me terribly, horribly sad. I used to empathise with parents when they'd say "Oh it's terrible, my child cries and bawls when I drop him off at school." and I'd, believing I was sincere, would say, "Oh I know! I was torn apart, but for the opposite reason: Kiddo #1 barely said goodbye when she left this morning. She doesn't need me anymore at all!" and I felt I was being a good friend.
Well, to all my friends with crying children, I now fully understand your pain. It's not the same when your kiddo runs off to join friends and barely waves. That sucks, but that's not the same.
The same is when the nursery school teacher brings your baby-est baby to the window so he can wave good bye to his Mama and you can't hear a shriek but you can see the deafening screams all over his face. The same is when you can see him gasping for breath through the window and you're smiling and trying not to Kool-Aid Man through the wall to get him and hold him and make him feel better. The same is when you can watch him mouthing "Daaadaaa! Dadddaaaa!" and all you can think about is how he's too young for this and he's not ready and what was I thinking.
I'm sorry I was glib, but I didn't know it wasn't the same. Thanks for not throwing rocks at my face. I owe you one.
And, also, while I'm thanking people, THANKS NURSERY SCHOOL people for taking wonderful care of my two children. I don't know how you do it, but I never worry about their safety or wonder what they're doing, or whether they're getting enough stimulation or too much or anything of the sort. For real, knowing he was bawling in your arms kept me from actually, for real, crashing through the building to save him. Oh yeah.
Oh, Kiddo #2 calls me Dada, and he calls his father Daddeeeee, in case you're wondering what that shizz is.
On a great note, the shrieks of joy that reverberated off the walls of the nursery school when I came back to pick him up were the sweetest dinosaur roars I've ever heard. 'Dada' never sounded so good.
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