It's a matter of degree, I would think. Everybody raises their voices at their kids from time to time.
But people who scream so as to intimidate or terrorize their kids often have other problems, such as low self esteem or alcohol abuse; this passes on disfunction to the kids.
See post 8.
Sometimes it's the only way to get their attention.
Agreed.
I have never thought that any good came out of the psychiatric community, but I am sure some must, so I usually keep my disdain to myself.
But it does make me think of my parents raising us back in the Sixties...they were definitely not the “Dr. Spock” devotees.
My dad, a high functioning alcoholic for nearly his entire life, rarely raised his voice in volume, rarely cursed other than hilariously (today) calling us “Dumb Bunnies”, and the extent of his physical punishment was a backhand to the back of our occipital region of our skull as he dismissed us so that his college ring would deliver a stinging blow...but the tone of his voice so frightened us that we would never, ever talk back or show disrespect or disobey.
He did engage in psychological warfare, though, as when told to go to our room and “wait until your father gets home”, we would hear them discussing in inaudible tones, the nature of infraction.
My father would mount the stairs with his heavy footfall, and we could hear the metallic tinkle as he undid the buckle of his belt, and the hissing sound as it escaped from the belt loops of his trousers.
Then, he would fold the belt over double, and snap the belt by pushing both hands towards each other then rapidly pull them apart, causing a sharp snapping sound.
By the time he opened the door, we were already beaten.
He would say, in low threatening tones (as only my dad seemed to be able to do) “What...did...I...tell...you...about...hitting...your...SISTER?” and he would flail feebly at your legs and behind with it, inflicting no pain or damage.
During this exchange, he would walk slowly towards you, with you backing up until you found yourself in a corner, unable to escape.
When he was done, it was usually with a sharp “Do you understand?”
You were expected to say “Yes Sir.”
If you were feeling rebellious, and just said “Yes”, his voice would rise slightly and he would say “Yes WHAT?” to which you would invariably reply “Yes SIR.”
As he dismissed you, he stood stationary, forcing you to walk past him. Once past him, he would deliver that stinging coup de grace to the back of your skull with the back of his hand and the red stone of that giant class ring.
We were terrified of getting reprimanded by my dad, but I realized none of us feared his physical punishment. When my dad got sober late in life, and I was an adult, it occurred to me that my Dad simply did not have the heart to really hit us. He didn’t have it in him. He was a respectful and gentle man, and didn’t embarrass us mentally or hurt us physically.
A real gem of a man. How I miss him.
My mother, however, was another story altogether. She was a dark haired, dark eyed beauty with a widow’s peak, the daughter of a rough Armenian father and an opinionated and vocal Italian mother.
When SHE came at us (there were six of us) she could become quite emotionally unhinged and could take the strap to us with a fervor that would leave red welts under our blue jeans, shrieking like a banshee, her eyes bugging out of her head. So she was physically far more damaging, but...we weren’t afraid of her. Often, her anger was quite short lived, and later, she would gather you up and silently give you a hug.
I know they say the worst thing for an adult to do with a child is to really lose their temper, but years later as I thought of this, I realized the stress my mother went through being married to an alcoholic, but worse, my dad would often disappear on deployments for up to a year or more, leaving her to deal with everything, including six contentious, high-spirited kids who fought quite often, and she had to deal with it on her own.
When I think of it now, my heart goes out to her, what she went through, managing that household, the maintenance, the finances, and us, all alone while my father was at sea.
One of the things I have treasured about growing up and getting older, is the limitless respect and love I gained for both of my parents as I dwelt on these things.
How did they ever do it?
I do have one more anecdote that makes me laugh every time, even though at the time, my poor mom was at the end of her rope.
When I was seven years old, I decided to use some religious artifact my mother apparently treasured, to mix paint by numbers oil paint in. We were Catholic, and it was one of those fancy things they held under you chin during Communion, this one looked like a small brass frying pan with a hinged lid on it.
I don’t know why I did that, or chose that artifact she felt so strongly about, but I mixed up those paints, then just left them all in there to dry. When she discovered it, she nearly had a nervous breakdown, had all six of us all lined up, and whipped us with the belt to get a confession, which I was too stubborn and frightened to give. The poor woman ended up sobbing, and she said “I can’t take it anymore. I am putting you all up for adoption.” She picked up the phone and called the “orphanage” (most likely the number you used to call back then that said “The date is October 16th, the temperature is 58 degrees...”) and we all tearfully implored her not to send us to “the orphanage”!
I never did tell her I was the one who let all that paint dry in that artifact, just like I never told my dad I had, at that same age of seven, destroyed his Rolex by trying to “fix” it for him by putting it in a vise and using a hammer and screwdriver to get the back of it off....
For years, I would see him looking through his dresser drawer, wondering “Where is that damn watch?” but he died before I had the courage to tell him. He knows now...:)
You should not make your kids feel hated.
Discipline should be discipline, not the expression of your rage.