A few years ago, that would have meant something far different. Maybe hanging in the bar with some writing buddies, ostensibly reviewing each other's work, but mostly doing one-armed curls of Sam Adams. Perhaps prepping for a date - perhaps it would lead somewhere meaningful, more probably a funny story, most likely to nothing more than a pleasant evening.
But as dad to a 4- and 2- year old, it means silence. Horrible, disconcerting silence.
The missus has gone for a run. The rugrats are napping off a fun, traumatic morning of errands, tae kwon do trials, and grandparent visits. The TV is off. And it's too damn quiet.
Noise? I can process that. Hell, noise is something I can gladly overreact to, and often do. But at least with noise I know what the kids are doing. But silence? That's just a tactic, a Machiavellian ruse meant to lower my guard and get me to think they're complacent, compliant angels. Let's review some of the more interesting things recently discovered after a protracted bout of things being... "too quiet":
- Claire, covered from the waist down in a mix of loose stool and name-brand diaper cream, explaining she "got something on her book" (that something, of course, was crap).
- Connor, sitting beside a dresser whose drawers were arranged like a grand staircase, holding a to that had previously been seven feet up (The explanation? "The toy fell down.")
- A sculpture in the sink, composed entirely of children's toothpaste, artist unknown.
- A half- roll of toilet paper, floating in the toilet. Intact, not unrolled.
I would go on, but my wife just returned from her jog, ached her head, and announced "Someone's up." Claire, fumbling around her room, debating whether or not to go pottie. Ah, blissful, blissful noise.
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