At the end of the day I relish the silence. I have to relish it fast because I know it will not last. The kids are quiet because they are reading. In a moment I will have to make them turn the lights out, a process that is anything but silent. In theory there is more silence after lights out, but in practice it takes awhile to get there and by the time I do, my own bedtime is nigh.
But for the moment I have quiet. In this quiet space there are no children mulishly attempting to avoid homework. No one is deliberately attempting to annoy anyone else. No one is unintentionally annoying anyone else. No one is thumping up and down stairs at a dead run while giggling with a sibling following and emitting that half giggle, half cry of dismay that means the formerly-fun game is close to dissolving into a fight. No one needs me to pour milk, or invent snacks, or spell a word, or answer a question. These are not random examples. All have been part of the last two hours.
In the quiet space I am able to view these sorts of events with something akin to affection. I know that this period of my life is one to treasure. I know that I will sometimes miss the chaos and quarrels. Just yesterday at church I watched a mother with her crying baby and felt a pang remembering what it was like to be the primary comforter for an infant, to be the person who could make the world better just by jouncing exactly right. For a moment I missed it, but then the mother had to go change a stinky diaper and I didn’t. I’ll miss my kids as they are right now, but I am so glad that my life now does have moments of silence after the chaos. I revel in the quiet spaces because they give me strength to be calm in the face of chaos.
Time is up. Got to go make the lights be out.