Waking early enough on a not yet light Sunday morning, I was ready to do a little writing and organizing of my thoughts and work in the pink-tinged quiet. I stepped into the hallway. “Mama!” I heard.
I’ve spent the past chunk of time placating a somewhat irritable three year-old. So much for quiet; so much for finding my place in the day—we were off and running (and placating).
So often when the quiet moments do arrive, I’m so tangled up for whatever reason I can’t quite sink in to them. If I had to articulate one of the hardest aspects of parenthood for me it’s that lack of control over the quiet, the way others really do come first—always. If I want the quiet, I have to jigger everything to ensure it; I can’t just be assured that by getting up early enough it’s mine. I love the little voice beside me “reading” a book aloud and I can block it out enough to work. I love that I helped get her from her Grrr state to this much calmer and more content one. I do.
Eventually, there will be more reliable quiet and I’ll miss their chatter and messes and neediness, even.
Honestly, though, I’d take a little more quiet in the coming weeks than I’m possibly gonna get. Both things can be true; both things are true.
She’s done with her book and whining again. I rest my case.
