Guest blogger Jenny Isenman talks about losing her cool. She last debated the age-old question to clean or not to clean.

She has a fabulously funny and relatable Suburban Jungle blog: It May Be Suburbia, But it's a Jungle Out There.

I have something to tell you: I screamed “shut up” at my son today.

“SHUT UP!”

Not “shush” or “sshhhhh” or even “ferme la bouche.” No, “Shut Up.” I didn’t say it in a whisper, or even hiss it through clenched teeth. I yelled it in a vein popping tone, and it felt sort of good, aside from the fear of having an aneurism. I hate to admit it, but in the moment I actually enjoyed the shock value.

In my house, “shut up” is still the “S” word. That and “stupid”…fine. “Shut up” is a phrase that I -- a person who has managed to say “Sugar” and “Fudge” through the last seven years -- have never uttered to my children.

Had I witnessed you on the street saying -- no, screaming -- that to your child, I would have judged you with disdain. I may have even considered calling child services on you. Now, I’m the one with the scarlet letter.

I’m not going to tell you what my son did, but just know, he started it! Fine, I’ll tell you. He was yelling at me, telling me “No,” contradicting me, and being incredibly obnoxious all at once, and all at warp speed. He never took a breath. I didn’t know whether to punish or have him try out for the swim team.

The funny thing is, I just finished writing an article about the Spanking / IQ study, and here I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do: “ensuring my child will need hours of therapy.”

The worst part of this whole confession-inducing incident was the look on his face. It was somewhere between “Uh-oh, you said a bad word!” and a lip biting, “Sniff, sniff. You said that bad word to ME?”

Somewhat in shock myself, I had to regroup and think of my options: Apologize, use candy or some other bribe to gloss over it, or explain my actions. I went the obvious route, and when he finished licking the Kit-Kat residue off his fingers, I said I was sorry.

I’ll tell you, when my kids were little, I would have sworn this day would never come. How could you look at those sweet chubby cheeks and imagine they could ever frustrate you so much?

Conversely, when I told a few of my friends the story, they were shocked at how long I’d held out.

Wait a minute, I think there’s some praise in there. I amazed people with my nearly infinite patience. I deserve a medal, not a scornful eye. I take it all back. I am the best mom. It took me almost eight years to tell my child to “shut up.” Wahoo!

See, if you practice patience (but not too much), and bottle up frustration like seltzer (that your kids can agitate until it pops), you, too, can astound people.

(Picture by Tiago Riberio)