The other day I yelled at my kids. Not a garden-variety yell. A screech. A holler. A roar. The kind of yelling that reverberates around the house and continues to echo in corridors of guilt. The kind of yelling that the neighbours will talk about (three doors down). The kind of yelling that leaves your throat hoarse and every time you swallow you are reminded of your parenting failure. The kind of yelling that stops a child in their tracks. In fear.
