The Deafening Sound of Silence

I remember a night when I was about 25-years-old. I went to NYC with a friend to go dancing. We checked into a hotel and around 4 a.m. we tried to go to bed. All I could hear was the street noise below and the sound of a flag banging on a flag pole, bang, bang, bang, bang.

My friend, born and raised in the city, slept peacefully in her bed. I slept on the floor, head in the bathroom, the fan on, cotton balls in my ears.

Years later I found myself in the kitchen with my two small boys running around me screeching and playing. My mother had slept over the previous night and stood there pouring her first cup of coffee. She was in a bit of a daze.

"It's different, huh? Than it was with us?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I have to admit it was different." She had raised two girls.

She wondered whether buying them dolls and doll carriages would help. Would they play quietly? No, they would not. The would use their dolls as ninjas and the carriages would crash into the walls.

While the noise at 7 a.m. is admittedly intense, it is normal to me. I wash dishes while they sword-fight and run screaming from one end of the kitchen to the other crashing into the refrigerator.

Even though the noise is my new norm, I felt giddy when my husband decided to take both boys out hiking this morning. A whole hour alone in a quiet house on a Sunday morning. I could do so much. I would take a shower, knit, post some pictures on Facebook.

The first thing I did was take a shower, with the door closed, alone.

A few minutes into the shower, though, I found that instead of relaxing I was anticipating. When would my 4-year-old barge in to pee? When would my 18-month-old start banging on the door yelling "mama, mama!"? When would something crash to the floor?

I finished my shower and listened to the silence. It was deafening. For a brief moment I wondered if this is what it feels like when your kids move out? It was a sad thought.

As soon as I left the bathroom and sat down in the living room I saw the car pull into the driveway. They had been gone less than 20 minutes (you learn to shower quickly when you have two children under five).

The door opened and my husband walked in, our 18-month-old yelling in his arms.

"Not happening," he said. "He won't get into the backpack. He just flailed and screamed. But Paddy still wants to go."

With that he turned and walked back out the door leaving me with a wailing child. "Dada, dada!" he screamed and cried. I brought him into the living room to soothe him.

I took a deep breath and realized that now things felt right.