The other day G, Little Missy and Baby Chickadee sat around the kitchen table for lunch as I puttered around the room. As is quite common, Little Missy squealed in faux-anger response to something G did.
Breaking from my usual chiding of, “G: don’t pester your sister; Little Missy: ignore him,” I focused just on Little Missy. I explained to her that boys love to hear girls squeal and will do what they can to make it happen. IF, however, said girl does not squeal in response, said boy will probably give up and move on with his life. Or at least his lunch.
Little Missy nodded and looked at G, whose smiling eyes and close-mouthed grin confessed that what I told was truth.
This all on the heels of the time in the vehicle over the weekend that I had to look at my husband and tell him to “Cut it out already,” because his throwing the bouncy ball at the windshield and catching it was making Baby Chickadee squeal too much. (“But I’m only playing catch. I’m not doing anything to her.” “But you are making her squeal. Cut it out already.”)
That on the heels of growing up with a father who my mother continually admonished to “Be their father, not their brother,” as he did something or other to make my sister and me roll our eyes and squeal.
This is a tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme: boys pester girls to elicit a squeal. And we girls cannot make it stop with more squealing, no, we can only make it stop by ignoring them, or at least by suppressing the squeal down in our guts. And the squealing in my home must stop before I thump both of those big kids on the head.