We live in an apartment now which really seems oddly luxurious to us right now. No mowing the lawn! You just call maintenance when something happens! Built-in playmates! I haven't gotten stressed about cleaning it up once.
But it's still an apartment which means sound seems to travel as much as Flat Francis. This jet-setting of sound led me to a resounding realization in my mothering and wiving (real word? you know what I mean) efforts today.
When irritable Katrina irritatingly made her presence known via scary mom voice and snippy wife voice, I remembered we lived in an apartment and worried, "What about the neighbors hearing me?"
But a better question came at me:
"What about my children hearing me?"
I'm not one to like my own voice (whenever I hear it on video I normally think I sound stoned, how lovely!), but I do want my children to know it. They can know it with love, with patience and with patient and loving discipline, but boy! I shouldn't cringe about the neighbors hearing me be mean. I should cringe about my two boys and girl hearing me be mean. And I mean it.