For the first time in what seems like forever, it is quiet. Relatively. Outside is lit up every eleven seconds or so with the impending storm but the rest of the house is quiet.
Kitty is asleep at my feet, taking up far too much space on my chair’s footrest. The dryer has stopped as has the dishwasher. The littles are tucked into bed in their cotton summer jammies. The house is closed up and the air is on; everything is very oddly still. So still that my fingers on keys seem to be an intrusion.
Our last month has been filled with babies. Two of them joined our daytime lives for a small time. One was my sweet baby niece and the other was the doll-baby girl of an old friend. The two babies are six weeks apart, nearly twins. And now I know why I never got the twins I secretly wished for all these years. Aside from the near-constant feeding and soothing and holding and diaper changing, there is the noise. Even when they are not fussing or crying there is always noise. Television noise because something/somebody needed to babysit Amelia while I tended to the wee babes. Or the soft little snorts and grunts that are unique to an infant.
I will miss the noise but, oh, the quiet. I do love the quiet.
Ella’s last day of first grade is tomorrow. She brought home, what appears to be, the contents of her desk/cubby/locker. I got a chance to go through her portfolio for the year and writing samples and how she has changed through the year. I love reading her journal because I am always interested in what is meaningful to her.
“On Saterday I will vizit my grama. In canza sity.” (2-16-11)
“I wocht the Kittin haf tim show and a pupy boll yestaday. it was funy. Thar was all tiny kittys at the show.” (Day after the Super Bowl)
And a poem:
My cat aet my feet/My cat aet my seet/My cat aet my meet/My cat ate my sheet/She is a weerd cat.
I do like it that her teacher just let them write about whatever and didn’t go back to correct spelling and all the things that make writing not fun when you are six years old. She wrote almost half of her entries about our cat or a cat on the street or the steps to get your own cat (steps to get a cat: get mony, get a box with holes in it, get a name, get a guyed (a guide), pay wit the mony, take your kitty home). The other chunk of entries involved family and travel or people who visited us. Some were random like talking about a birthday party three years ago but it must have been on her mind that day but isn’t that what journaling is all about?
She has come so far this year. Some days I don’t recognize this child and other days…well there are days when I feel like I’m stuck in the same day over and over. And days I don’t want to end.
Like tonight. It is quiet.
And it’s not just the house and the kids and the blasted cat who keeps stretching and extending her claws and reaching out to my bare leg only to be shocked when I twitch at the little pokes.
It’s my mind that is quiet. Last week I didn’t sleep. I thought it was the quarterly whatever that happens to me. But it wasn’t. The tears and the memories and the sights and smells of my past, our past, didn’t show up. My head was buzzing for the future and considering options and writing thousands of words just before drifting off. Drifting isn’t a good visual. Crashed would be better. Going, going, going. Gone.
This week has brought quiet. It’s brought the feeling that something new is just. right. there. And if I can be quiet. Nobody move. Nobody breathes. Then maybe, maybe it will find me.