This morning I was making summer holiday breakfast for my kids – eggs, bacon, and homemade strawberry jam on toast. Not a hard or long task, but one that requires me to flip the bacon on time and not burn the eggs. My oldest wandered into the kitchen and wanted to tell me about his latest invention – at length, trailing me devotedly, bumping up against me in our small kitchen with each turn.
My heart sank, it’s impossible to explain to kids that for maybe a half hour, I wanted to cook in peace with a little quiet. The bacon starts to burn and I ask him to give me a minute. He looks hurt. Guiltily, I call him back into the kitchen and put him in charge of the toast. He talks, engrossed is his story while he works. By the time the rest of the food is done, we only have two pieces of toast for five people.
Later that day, my youngest is following me while I need to dress for a graduation party. He’s curious about my make-up and why I put it on, he wants to see my teeth, can he hold the soap? Mix the toothpaste with my face cream? He trails me down the hallway, and asks “why are you going into the closet?” I stare at him in frustration – more with myself than anything – I have forgotten why I needed the closet. I remember ten minutes later that I had wanted to wear a necklace. By then I am already in the car and on the way to the party.
The day reminds me of a recent conversation I had with a colleague. Her husband is a talker too, she confesses. Between him and the kids, she never has a moment of quiet at home. Her office is a type of refuge of silence. At home, she plays classical music to drown the others out while she tries to remember what she was cooking for dinner.
I’m not looking for silence for the sake of silence itself. I don’t want to live in a monastery or a museum. It’s what the silence allows me to do that I crave. Quiet allows me to think coherent thoughts that I can stack on top of one another to form plans, turn into art, plan a meal or even read a book. I long for a quiet house.
It doesn’t work to simply ask the kids to be silent. They look hurt, wounded. I draw a scarlet “T” for “terrible mom” on my chest when they pull those sad faces. Nor do I simply want to turn on the tv and park them for an hour. I’m looking for ideas for a happy, loving, kid-friendly, engaged house – that is on occasion – a quiet house. Any thoughts?
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