Valium Voice

I've never taken Valium. I've never been high. But I've seen enough to have a reasonable hint of what it's like. Enough to conclude that certain toddler tantrums may be more likely to just roll off the back of someone a little strung out. Hence, Valium Voice.

It's easy at this point in time, with Jonathan nearly 5 and Abby struggling with the issues of being 2 1/2, to forget that there were days that I thought Jonathan's meltdowns were a threat to my last drop of sanity. But I do distinctly recall climbing into the car in a ToysRUs parking lot after wrestling Jonathan, nearly 2, into his carseat. I no longer recall why he was so terribly outraged, but I do remember mentally considering all my options, reassuring myself I had offered every reasonable solution to his distress and expressed empathy for his frustration. And then I checked out. As he screamed bezerk bananas in the backseat, I answered anything that required a response in a sing-song voice that might be more appropriate coming from an instructional video on retail customer service, a smiling, "Would you like fries with that?"

"Oh, you wish you weren't wearing pants?"

"Oh, you hate summer?"

"I see, you don't like the clouds today," I responded occasionally to Jonathan's string of irrational exclamations.

The point was not "I don't care." We'd been through that. I expressed concern for his distress, offered more than one reasonable solution, and let him know what I'd be doing if he didn't care to pick from the suggestions and calm down. But ultimately my voice said, "I'm not going to get entangled in your anger." More significantly, it was simply my last ditch effort to avoid yelling back at him, driving like a maniac, or saying something spiteful that would hurt.

Along the way, I've discovered that pretending to be calm goes a long way towards actually being calm. Which is why this comes to mind today. I can't count how many times I instructed one of the munchkins to "change your voice please" today. The whining is even more oppressively omnipresent than the mosquitoes are, and now the kids have graduated to occasional angry shouting. Instructing the tone of their voices at first was just a way to avoid losing my mind in the whining hum. But I'm seeing that attitude and heart are often led by our tone and our words. Communicating anger with accurate and respectful words and with a controlled tone goes a long way towards controlling the power of anger and harnessing it for rational problem solving, while avoiding damage to a relationship you'll shortly need to repair.

While I can kick in Valium Voice when the kids are hitting the floor, I've discovered this year that I definitely have a distinct "I'm fed up with you, and frankly you annoy me" voice that makes its appearance when I'm feeling stretched thin by incessant negotiations. As I focus on Compassion this year, I'm still working to find those moments where I may not have a gentle heart but can fake-it-til-I-make-it, at least with my tone of voice.


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