Confession: I’m loud!

As a teacher and former cheerleader and coxswain, it should surprise no one that I can be extremely loud. For a small person, my vocal cords pack a big punch. In my hey day, I could project my drill-sergeant voice clearly for 80 feet in dense fog (a feat often required while rowing on wet Washington mornings). In the classroom, I can vary the decibels from the barest whisper to desk-shaking screams. And often do. I find it keeps the students awake. My neighboring teachers have come to accept hearing my lectures through their thin walls, accompanied by the occasional Macbeth-witch screech or Raven croak. I am often asked to emcee assemblies—no microphone necessary—and am placed on prominent duty during all dances.

I’m not always loud. Every three months or so, my vocal cords go on strike with a bout of laryngitis, which I treat during the day with honey-laced tea and at night with tea-laced whiskey. At home, I soften my voice to calm the children, dog or husband. When chaos erupts—as it does with disturbing frequency—I abruptly sharpen back to the drill-sergeant commands.

When I’m completely relaxed, my voice will barely register above a whisper. My husband often complains that not only do I mumble in this relaxed state, but have the annoying tendency to leave my sentences unfinished. For this I have several responses:
1. I speak coherently—even eloquently—40+ hours a week as a career. He doesn’t want to arrest people on his time off, I don’t want to speak well.
2. After 15 years, he ought to be able to anticipate my thoughts and finish my sentences.
3. He’s not really listening to me anyway, so I don’t understand why he complains. This is, after all, the man whose favorite response to any sort of disagreement is to about-face and march out of the room.

I also have the disconcerting gift of saying exactly the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong tone of voice. Thankfully, I discovered this unfortunate talent early on and learned the perfect defense against my natural ability to be gauche: I simply shut up. In uncertain company, I remain (uncharacteristically, for those who know me) silent in order to avoid voicing a social gaffe. I have always hoped that people perceive this coping mechanism as innate shyness. I have, however, been informed that it is, instead, interpreted as supreme bitchiness. Ah, well. It’s a lose-lose: being snarky and witty by nature, the thoughts I would voice would also be supremely bitchy. At least when I’m quiet, no one can repeat what I’ve said.

In one area, however, I am completely unable to remain silent: the bedroom. Or the minivan. Or the kitchen table, the shower, the couch…anywhere we are having sex. I have heard that many women orgasm silently. I cannot fathom this. I cannot even LUST silently. My every sensation is moaned, groaned, sighed, panted or screamed.

Nor can I have a silent partner. Common knowledge states that men are visually stimulated while women are mentally stimulated. I am aurally-stimulated. I require sexual sounds and prefer dirty talk. The very feel of certain words sliding across my lips makes me tingle. The taste of an esoteric term melts on my tongue like the finest chocolate. Deputy Hottie, while teasing me once during dinner, said, ‘however comma’ and then grinned in mischievous delight when I couldn’t quite contain my rapturous sigh.

Not that I expect verbal acrobatics during every sexual adventure. I must, however, have sound. Sighs, groans, cries of delight. A silent partner will turn me cold instantly.

My need for sound, coupled with my inability to control it, has resulted in awkward situations. We have received complaints while at hotels and admonishments from house-guests. Perhaps more embarrassing is when we do not expect others to hear.

When our first daughter was a baby we, like most new parents, invested in a baby monitor. Looking back, I have no idea why any parent would feel the need to hear their child’s cries in surround-sound. At least, why we felt this need—it’s not as if our house was large enough to avoid hearing her commanding shrieks. Indeed, it was not uncommon for our neighbors to hear our daughters’ awesome lung power.

Still, the Babies-R-Us registry list told us we needed a monitor and all of the parenting magazines concurred, so we dutifully placed one receiver in the nursery and toted around the other wherever we went. I often took it with me outside when I stole a few blessedly quiet moments in the sun during afternoon nap time.

One afternoon, my husband initiated what was to become one of our most cherished parenting traditions: nap-time-nookie. Women’s magazines are full of articles about being ‘morning girls’ or ‘night time lovers’ and advice about how to match the peak of your sexual desire with your partner’s. My desire, apparently, peaks during the 12-2 universal nap time.

On this fateful afternoon, my eldest was blissfully snoring away when my husband came to fetch me and lure me into our sun-drenched bedroom. A long, lazy, awake (HMMs all know why THAT adjective is imperative to the new and sleep-deprived mother) love-making session followed.

And was broadcast to the entire neighborhood through the monitor.

We often laid Kate down for her morning snooze in our bedroom so that we could conduct morning chores—often involving cleaning the nursery or putting away endless tiny outfits---while she slept. Being attentive parents, we would place the monitor in our room with her so that we could hear her every snuffle and rustle as she slept.

On this day, I had forgotten to relocate the monitor back to the nursery for the longer afternoon nap. The receiver was left on our front porch—volume up full. I’ve been told the ‘broadcast’ was better than many pornographic movie soundtracks: several of my married neighbors smirkingly thanked me the next day.

But this is not the most mortifying loud experience. That occurred years later, long after naps were a thing of the distant past and had been replaced by that most blessed of weekend traditions: Saturday Morning Cartoons. One Saturday, while my children zoned out to Mickey Mouse in the family room, back in our bedroom my husband hit a particularly good spot—and I hit a correspondingly high note. A few moments later, a little voice called through the door, ‘Mommy, why are you screaming?” Mommy did not have an answer other than to bury her head in her pillow and laugh.

The girls now ignore all strange sounds coming from Mom and Dad's room. They've compensated by learning to turn up the TV. Aren't my kids smart?!?