Tim Dowling: My wife is experimenting with shouting ‘No’ a lot

My wife has recently begun an investigation – belatedly, you might think – into the workings of the adolescent male brain. It started, I think, with a video she saw online; the next morning, a book landed on the mat. By the evening she was conducting experiments on all available subjects.

“Watch this,” she says. We’re in the sitting room. The middle one reluctantly peels his eyes from the television to look at her. She looks at him, then at me, then at him.

“NO!” she shouts suddenly, holding out one flat palm. “NO! NO! NO!”

“Jesus Christ!” I shout.

“Do you see?” she says, pointing at the middle one. “When you do that, it automatically induces a panic reaction in the adolescent male.”

“That’s not surprising,” I say.

“Whereas you jumped out of your skin like a baby,” she says.

“It was loud,” I say.

“The however-many-Fs of stress reactions,” my wife says. “Fight, flight… erm…”

“Is ‘fuck off’ one of them?” the middle one says.

“NO!” my wife shouts.

“Here’s another one,” she says, setting her features. “What expression am I wearing?” We both stare at her for a minute.

“Angry,” I say.

“Angry,” the middle one says.

“That’s exactly what you’d expect from the adolescent male,” she says. “As opposed to a middle-aged man.”

“Why?” I say. “What’s it supposed to be? Disapproval? Disappointment?”

“It’s a neutral face,” my wife says.

“You might want to practise your neutral face in front of a mirror,” I say.

“NO!” she shouts. The middle one does not even turn away from the TV.

“Can you make her stop doing that?” he says.

“Can you please stop doing that?” I say.

“NO! NO! NO!”

By suppertime both boys are looking hunted. As the youngest one fills his plate, he notices with alarm that the table has been set for four.

“Wait,” he says. “Isn’t it free range?” In this context the term “free range” just means diners have dispensation to eat in any room in the house.

“NO!” my wife shouts.

“What the hell,” he says.

“It’s funny,” the middle one says, “that the one thing you’ve learned you’re not supposed to do is the thing you keep doing.”

My wife holds up her right hand. “This,” she says, tucking in her thumb and curling a fist round it, “is your brain.”

“That’s your brain,” the middle one says.

“Seriously,” the youngest one says, pointing toward the sitting room, “can I eat in there?”

“NO!” my wife shouts.

The next afternoon the four of us arrive home after lunch elsewhere. As the door opens the little dog runs up and collapses at the middle one’s feet, rolling on its back and showing its tiny teeth.

“Why are you acting guilty?” the middle one says. “And why are you doing it to me?”

I find the pepper mill lying on its side on the kitchen floor. “Someone’s been on the table,” I say. “But for what?”

“For that,” the middle one says, pointing to an empty, upside down butter dish behind the door.

“I don’t understand how a small dog can eat that much butter,” I say.

“She doesn’t eat it!” he shouts. “She drags it up to my room!” He shoots up the stairs, with the little dog chasing after him guiltily. My wife comes into the kitchen.

“That stupid dog,” I say. “It needs to learn that it can’t just…”

“NO!” my wife shouts. “NO! NO! NO!”

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