“Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD!”
Sometimes it’s not even loud. It’s just the same thing over and over again. Other times it’s the pitch. One of my boys lets out one of those high-pitched screams that only a little kid seems capable of making.
There’s a toy going off. Someone is asking me a question while the other one is trying to tell me something completely different. And I can feel myself changing. My shoulders tighten. I can’t concentrate. My patience starts disappearing.
Then something tiny happens, and I overreact.
For a long time, I thought I was just too sensitive.
Why Can’t I Just Handle the Noise?
They’re kids. Kids are loud. So when the noise bothered me, I figured the problem was me. I needed to be more patient, stop overreacting, and learn to deal with it.
After my ADHD diagnosis, I started understanding something about myself that I hadn’t before.
Sometimes I wasn’t just annoyed. I was becoming overloaded.
I have a sensitivity to noise. Sometimes it’s the volume. Sometimes it’s the pitch. Sometimes it’s hearing the same sound, question, or comment again and again. It builds until my brain doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to put it.
Then my anxiety shoots up. I can’t focus, my patience gets incredibly short, and suddenly the smallest things feel huge. Someone whines. Something spills. One more person says, “Dad,” and my reaction doesn’t match what actually happened.
My boys aren’t necessarily doing anything wrong.
Dad is overloaded.
Understanding that doesn’t give me permission to take it out on them. It gives me a chance to do something before I do.
I Needed Something Between Me and Red
We use Green, Yellow, and Red to think about behavior with our kids. I’m realizing Dad has a traffic light too, and for me, noise can move that light surprisingly fast.
I used to wait until Red and then try to make myself calm down. I’m learning it’s much easier to catch Yellow.
When I notice the noise starting to get to me, I don’t need to prove I can tolerate it. I need to put up a barrier before I become overwhelmed.
My first attempt was noise-canceling headphones. They worked. There was just one problem: I couldn’t hear my kids.
Turns out that’s a pretty significant design flaw when you’re Dad.
Then I tried Loop earplugs, and for me, they were a game changer. They don’t make everything silent—and that’s exactly the point. I can still hear my boys, talk to them, play with them, and hear when somebody needs me.
They just take the edge off. The background noise is quieter. Changes in pitch don’t hit me as hard. My brain gets a little more room, and I calm down.
The boys don’t have to stop playing. I don’t have to leave.
I can stay.
The Goal Was Never to Hear My Kids Less
At first, putting earplugs in around my children felt strange. Was I shutting them out?
Then I looked at what actually happened. Without them, I might get overwhelmed, become cranky, snap at something small, or eventually need to get away from everyone. With them, I could stay in the room, listen, play, answer another question, and be Dad.
That’s when my thinking changed. I had already started learning the same lesson in another noisy environment during swim lessons: sometimes staying present means figuring out what Dad needs, too.
I’m not trying to hear my kids less. I’m trying to hear them without my nervous system going into overdrive.
I Don’t Want a Quiet House
Okay, sometimes a quiet house sounds incredible.
But I don’t want my boys to have a quiet childhood because their dad has trouble with noise. I want laughter, ridiculous games, and imaginary emergencies. I want them running through the house because apparently Radar the fire dog needs to respond immediately.
I even want some of those completely unnecessary high-pitched screams.
Maybe fewer of those.
Their childhood should sound like childhood. My job isn’t to silence it. My job is to take care of myself well enough that I can be there for it.
The Dad Takeaway
For years, my plan was basically: Try harder not to overreact.
I’m learning that’s not much of a plan.
A better question is: What happens before I overreact?
For me, sometimes the answer is sensory overload. So that’s where I’m learning to intervene. Catch Yellow. Put up the barrier. Turn down the sensory load. Then get back in there. I’ve learned the same lesson when a family adventure falls apart: an overloaded dad trying to help an overloaded kid usually needs to regulate himself first.
Because I don’t need my boys to stop being loud, messy, ridiculous little kids. I want to be there for that.
Sometimes I just need a little help staying there.
And sometimes…
I need to turn the volume down.
