Neither hear nor there

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.