I Yelled At You

I really, truly yelled at you. But I didn't do it out of anger, I did it out of fear.

We were at your Grammy's house and your mother, grandmother and I were all sitting at the kitchen table, talking. It had been a pretty exhausting trip, because we were there for your Uncle B's funeral.

You were wondering around, playing around the table, and had sat down next to the wall. There, on the wall, at just your height was an outlet. I was talking and I glanced over and noticed that you were just about to stick your finger in the outlet, and I yelled.

I yelled loud.

It startled you so much that you started to cry--and I almost burst into tears myself. I was so afraid of you sticking that finger into that socket, and what might happen to you. I can't fathom how devastated I would be if you were to be seriously hurt--or worse.

So I yelled.

It worked. You didn't put your finger in the socket, and I don't think you ever will. At our house, they are still covered anyway. And I'm so sorry that I scared you and sorry that I made you cry. But I love you more than anything in this world, and if I had to do it all over again, I'd yell again. At the top of my lungs.