Shout, shout, let it all out

There’s at least one child who lives near us who likes to shout every morning. He/she/they descends the steps of their home and runs around the neighbouring vicinity sing-shouting at the top of their voice. He/she/they may also be the same child/children who screams every afternoon with such regularity and reliability that it’s evident we’re dealing with garden-variety bathtime/naptime disagreement and not something more sinister.

Ah, I remember being that age (those ages?). Shouting almost always brought some kind of relief—from pain, from frustration, from boredom, from the terrors of peace and quiet. At my ever-ripening age now, relief comes from laughter and ugly crying and making time to think and re-connect with myself, but I still marvel at the wondrous mechanics these little humans have. For example, their tiny throats can vibrate air particles with such vigour that concerned passersby stop to ask if they should to call the police.

At various shout o’clocks throughout the day, I wonder what the future holds for these young ones. Rock star. Opera singer. Football coach. Market auctioneer. Quiz night emcee. Suburban mum from the 80s. Flock of galahs in a tree at sunset. The possibilities are endless in this age of technology and the noise-cancelling headphones for which I am grateful.

Shout on, child. You are made of star stuff ⭐️