The other day we were driving in our van, and the boys wanted us to turn on the radio, which they tried to communicate by asking twelve times, in quick succession, “May we please listen to the radio?” We didn’t even have time to answer before the next one would ask in the exact same way, not even varying the words or tone. It was somewhat alarming.
In a house with so many, I’m regularly astonished by things like this.
The problem with turning on the radio when we’re in the car is that as soon as the music begins blaring into the backseat (Husband and I adjust the direction of the radio so we can talk in the front—cars are the best places to talk, because all the kids are strapped in with nowhere to go. Although sometimes that can also work against you.) the nine-year-old suddenly remembers that he has five billion words to say. He will accomplish this spectacle of word-vomiting, or attempt to accomplish it, by yelling his thoughts and random observations over the din of the music. Which then makes his brothers yell, “Be quiet! I’m trying to listen to music!” in some nice and not-so-nice ways so that Husband and I then have to address issues of honor and respect with a diatribe on how brothers are forever friends, after which everyone in the car says, “What?” because the music is still on and nobody heard a word.
Husband will turn off the radio and say, “Speak in an honoring way to each other.” And then he’ll turn it back on, eliminating the possibility of counter arguments.
One of the most interesting things about my children is this contrast between what they don’t hear and what they do.
The other day we were, again, driving in the van with the radio blasting, and we’d just told (or shouted to) our nine-year-old to stop hitting his brother, and he said, “What?” three times. We turned off the radio and told him, for the fourth time, to stop hitting his brother, and then we turned the radio back on. The volume of the music was exactly the same as it had been. Husband, in a normal speaking voice, mentioned his name—to me, not to him—and he heard everything that was said after the mention of his name. He even repeated it back to us, word for word.
Tell me how this can be possible.
My sons can’t hear me say that they must have all the LEGO pieces cleaned up by the time the timer goes off or the LEGOs will be in the sad, secret space of exiled toys. They can’t hear me calling their name when they’re playing outside and now it’s time to come back in and take a bath, because they’re having so much fun that the fun blocks out the sound of my voice. They can’t hear me announce that it’s cleanup time; they’ll just act like they don’t know what cleanup time is and go right on playing with the cars and building a new track and making a bigger and more out-of-control mess.
They can’t hear me say it’s now no longer time to play with Pokémon cards and will go ballistic when those Pokémon cards get confiscated. They can’t hear me call their name a thousand times to get their attention because I have something important to tell them or I need to relay some instructions. They can’t hear me when I ask them did they hear me.
They can’t hear me when I tell them to stop pummeling each other for the red LEGO piece, when there are five hundred other red LEGO pieces just like this one. They don’t hear me when I say I’ve had just about enough. They don’t hear me when they’re playing at the table and I tell them it would be wise to stop because they’re going to spill something, and then they do. And it’s usually milk. All over the wall, themselves, and the floor.
They can’t hear me when I instruct them to set the table or do their after-dinner chores or toss their clothes in the laundry basket or remember to put their shoes where they belong or any of the other billions of nagging instructions I have to give them every other minute of every day.
Basically, they won’t really hear anything I have to say if it (a) contains more than three words and (b) doesn’t contain the preamble of repeating their name at least three times and (c) doesn’t interest them in the least. (For those who are quick, you already know: the only thing they hear is their name. Everything after is disqualified, unless it’s something they’re not supposed to hear.)
We work hard on our communication in my home. Communication is the foundation for healthy relationships. My boys have a hearing problem, which we’ve tried to point out. But they don’t hear us.
The things they do hear, however, are a study in irony.
They hear the crackle of a chip bag that Husband opened in the pantry, where I’m supposed to meet him in thirty seconds. They hear us whisper something about the chocolate we’re going to get later, a confession that begs a reply like, “Aren’t you supposed to be eating better?” They hear us talking in soft murmurs about how worried we are about their uncle, and then we’ll have to explain why (kids can’t leave anything resting in mystery).
They’ll hear our feet going down the stairs to retrieve the treats we stashed in the topmost corner of the laundry room, where they’d never be able to find them (because they’re really, really bad at looking).
So I know that their inability to hear us when it’s important is not a case of whether they can actually hear or not. They just, like every other kid, have selective hearing. They hear what they want. They filter out the rest.
Sometimes I wish I could do the same. Then I would live in a world that had no whining, no complaining, and no ignorance.
When you’re a parent, however, this “editing” can be incredibly annoying. I can’t even mention in a phone call to my mom from the privacy of my room how proud I am of one of them without the kid saying, “Are you talking about me?” He’s not even home right now.
But when I tell them it’s time for bed so they can get enough sleep for the Family Fun Day tomorrow that we most definitely don’t want to make a Family Fight Day?
No one hears a word.
This is an excerpt from Hills I’ll Probably Lie Down On, the fourth book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
