Sounding Off With but a Mere Whisper

The goal is to go the entire day just whispering, never raising my voice once. Like the Godfather, I will whisper. Only I probably won’t order any mob hits or linguine. Not unless I have to. And if I do, I’ll whisper.

“What’s wrong with him?” my lovely and patient older daughter says.

“He’s talking softly,” the boy says.

“What?” my older daughter says.

“He only whispers,” the boy explains.

“That’s right, I only whisper,” I whisper.

“Jeeeesh,” my older daughter says.

“Dad only whispers!” the little red-haired girl screams.

“Jeeesh,” my older daughter says again, louder each time.

You’ve heard of the horse whisperer? I’m the dad whisperer. When noise breaks out, like it sometimes does in our house, I just whisper. When the TV’s too loud, I softly and patiently ask them to turn it down.

“I can’t hear you, Dad,” they say.

“Turn it down,” I whisper.

“Churchill Downs?” the boy asks.

“Turn it down,” I say, refusing to raise my voice, no matter the consequence.

I whisper because I can’t compete. Their lungs are too young and healthy. Too pink. Too powerful. If I raise my voice, they raise theirs. Then I raise mine. Before you know it, an impeachment hearing has broken out.

Some days, they yell back and forth like Bronco fans, as if yelling is a form of exercise. The next morning, they wake up sore, their yelling muscles aching from the day before. Then they yell some more.

“Mom, where’s my backpack?” they yell.

“Mom, I’m hungry!” they holler.

“Mom, the dog’s got a zit!” they scream.

They never yell for long. Maybe 20 minutes, 30 at the most, until the living room windows vibrate and figurines fall from the shelves and exclamation points pile up and the neighbors call police, complaining about a lot of yelling and a whole bunch of exclamation points littering the yard.

“I want it stopped!” the neighbors tell the desk sergeant. “These exclamation points are ruining the neighborhood!”

“MOM, SOMEONE’S HERE!!!!!!!!” the boy screams when the squad cars finally arrive.

“MOM, IT’S THE COPS!!!!!!!!” the little red-haired girl yells, always excited to have guests.

But beginning today, all that changes. Starting today, when others yell, I only whisper. If nothing else, it confuses the heck out of them.

“Dad, are you OK?” the little girl asks.

“I’m just whispering,” I mumble.

“Why?”

“Because yelling does no good.”

“I like to yell,” says the little girl.

“So I noticed.”

At first, the kids don’t know what to do about all this whispering. They’ve never met a dad who whispers. Sure, some dads don’t speak at all. But they’ve never met one who won’t raise his voice.

Before long, they’re treating me as if I have some new disease.

“Come here, Dad,” the little girl says.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Lie down on the couch,” the boy says.

Which goes against everything I believe in, lying down on a couch on a weekend full of football and college hoops. But I do it, anyway.

The little girl sits on the edge of the couch, putting her hand on my forehead and feeling behind my ears and under my jaw, the way her mother does when the little girl is sick.

“Stick out your tongue,” she says.

So I stick out my tongue.

“Yuck,” the little girl says. “No wonder you can’t talk, with a tongue like that.”

“Am I going to be OK?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says.

So I lie there on the couch some more, which is the best treatment for a bad tongue.

“Could you turn on the game?” I whisper.

“Sure, Dad,” the little girl says.

It is quiet now, with just the football announcer’s voice filling the house. It reminds me of when I was single, 40 or 50 years ago. For a moment, I think I can hear Curt Gowdy.

“What’s wrong with you?” my wife says, entering the house, her arms full of Christmas packages, her sense of charity left at the mall.

“He can hardly talk,” says the little girl.

“What?” her mother asks skeptically.

“I think it’s his tongue,” says the little girl.

“It’s my tongue,” I whisper.

“Mom, he says he’s the dad whisperer,” my older daughter explains.

“Yep, I’m the dad whisperer,” I tell my wife.

“Jeeeeesh,” my wife says, rolling her eyes and heading to another place, maybe Norway, to wrap her packages.

“You’re going to be all right, Dad,” the little girl says.

“You really think so?” I ask.

“Yep, you’re going to be all right,” she whispers.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.