Silence



It’s an unseasonably warm day. The sun is diffusing softly through the curtains, and the house is almost quiet. My tiniest child is sleeping upstairs, and I hear muffled shouts as I carry my book into the sitting room. I brush the gauzy curtain aside and see my gaggle of children, coats unbuttoned and flapping as they race on their bikes. 

A sniffly noise emits from our hound dog, snoozing in the corner, his head resting between his two front paws and eyes closed. I sit and read a while, listening to nothing but the sounds that always fill a “quiet” house. The heater clicking on. A sink dripping somewhere.  A slight breeze creaking the screen door. A small cry from my baby upstairs, before she settles and this noisy silence fills the air again. A conversation outside, in young voices I can’t decipher. A page of my book turning.





I look out the window and I can see the rain blowing up over the mountains, and the wind is picking up. My kid-gang tumbles through the door with bright eyes and red, runny noses. My middle boy asks for a snack with big eyes and a sniff. They tell me it’s getting cold, and they are inside now, and the house is quiet again, but not silent. A cartoon plays softly from the next room, and they occasionally converse with their fictional screen-friends or burst out into laughter.

Sometimes I want peace and quiet as a mom, and I got a little bit of the peace part this afternoon. The quiet part is ever debatable. A house with five kids is never actually silent. 

But then, even when the house is so full of noise that I’m overwhelmed, I know in my heart that silence isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. How very grateful I am to be here, in a house that’s never truly quiet, where shouts of joy, and small sorrows, squabbles and giggles - all this life spills out and vibrates the air molecules straight into my ears almost every moment of the day.
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