A Quiet House is an Empty House

I am in that stage of parenting that they never warned me about. Okay, so maybe they did warn me, I just didn’t listen. That stage they so laughingly refer to as the terrible two’s only my child is three and not so terrible. But still. It’s that stage where you engage in countless conversations from the second you wake up until the second you close your eyes at night and if you want to be truthful, even continues while you sleep. What kind of conversations you of the childless persuasion ask? Every kind of conversation from do you want apple juice or grape juice, the pink cup or the orange cup, the plate with the bear or the plate with the train, be still so I can zip your pants, don’t whine, don’t you dare hit mommy, that sign says stop, Mommy is a girl and Daddy is a boy, Nana can’t come pick you up today, no tomorrow we go to the zoo, and I’ve told you that we don’t pick our nose in public. When you’re a parent, there is nothing off limits and it’s guaranteed that your child will outlast you every time unless you sedate him and even then there’s no guarantee.

I remember when our house was a place of solace, with lit candles and Enya crooning softly from a radio not covered with Sponge Bob stickers. Not anymore. Now the house actually shakes with the endless marching in his favorite cowboy boots. He’s jumping on beds and throwing things into the sink while he “helps” me clean the kitchen. He shrieks of joy every time Daddy or the UPS man comes – we won’t reveal who gets the louder shrieks. He’s singing Jesus Loves Me in the bathtub and the cartoons are blaring as we bribe him to go potty. Our house is never quiet even when my child is not in it for he undoubtedly leaves random toys that he has instructed to go off at a moment’s notice from behind a couch or a chair when I’m alone in the shower. The noise of my child carries into the car, the grocery store, the auto shop, the doctor’s office. I can’t remember the last time I experienced complete and total silence. Until today.

Today while my child was at preschool I decided not to run errands. I decided not to have my hair cut or my nails done. Instead I went to my mother’s house which was the closest place I could find to the school to avoid wasting one second of beloved “me” time driving. I chose to go to my mother’s empty house and write. Or at least that’s what I told people. I was really going to just sit and be. To drink in the delicious taste of silence. And that’s what I did.

At first it was nice. Really nice. And I drank enough of it to last me at least until he’s four. It was quiet. Really quiet. I tried to hear something and couldn’t. No whir of a distant lawn mower. No air conditioner sputtering. No ice dropping in the freezer. Just a faint ticking clock which I say doesn’t count and was probably just something loose rattling inside my head.

After a while though it became too quiet. After a while, I really started to feel what a house sounds like when the children are gone and the toys are shipped off. When the fingerprints are no longer on the door handle and the nose prints have been wiped off the glass. No tiny shoes and socks strewn in the hall. No mysterious items found in toilets and drains. Everything in its place. No more conversations. No sign that children were ever here. And you know what? It made me sad. Because it gave me a taste of what life will be like one day when my son has moved away. It reminded me that every day with my shrieking three-year-old is a blessing and that one day I will look up and have my quiet house and will probably give anything for one of these days back again.

Another Crazy Mommy Moment

It was my first night out as a new mommy – as in no kids. My husband was taking me out to dinner to celebrate our first six months of successful parenting – or maybe the fact that the cable was out and he knew he couldn't watch the game. I didn't care. I was going out. Nothing was going to ruin this night for me.

I let Junior watch six hours of cartoons while I got ready. I took a bubble bath. I shaved. I bought a cute little black dress that no longer fell into the "little" category, but I didn't care. I even purchased a sexy little thong which rubbed a blister before I was even through applying my mascara. But I left it on. Nothing was going to ruin this night!

I even decided to tackle the overwhelming task of doing something to my breastfed boobs that now hung to my knees and had been attracting National Geographic reporters from all over the country. I bought these cool pasty things you stick in your bra that looked something like a raw chicken breast, but did in fact make my chest look perky and take attention off my rear end which had grown to the point that it now occupied another zip code and was at the moment making some pretty interesting bottom music due to the late afternoon snack of raw broccoli combined with the thong. It was as if I had invented a new rubber band instrument. I'm thinking of getting a patent.

I put on my highest heels. Took them off. Put them back on, and reminded myself that beauty is pain and waited for my husband to pick me up. I was so happy. I kissed Junior, kissed the babysitter, and ran out the door to meet my husband. Okay, walked fast. The heels were really high.

He didn't notice my heels. He didn't notice the dress. He didn't notice that I was now limping because I had a blister in between my butt cheeks that was starting to get infected. He was too busy trying to find a parking spot up front at Burger Bart's Buffet where all the food is displayed around the perimeter of the restaurant and who needs a waiter when you can get up and get it yourself?

I'm standing there trying to decide between macaroni and cheese or assisted suicide, crammed in between my husband who is scouting out the nearest TV and a sweet older gentleman who seemed to be staring a little too intently at my cleavage. Looking back, I understand why. Because the miraculous perky pseudo-breast I had tucked inside my dress was coming dislodged. Of course, I didn't know this, which is probably why it generated such a rapt audience at the salad bar. Especially when I sneezed and the breast popped out of my dress and landed in the cottage cheese.

I was mortified. Do I quickly pick it up and stuff it back in? Do I put it on my plate beside the cherry tomatoes? Do I leave it there and act like I had no idea I had lost a booby on the salad bar? Sometimes fate has a way of working things out. This wasn't one of those times.

I felt another sneeze coming on – apparently allergic to the new body splash I bought for this special occasion – and the magnitude of the sneeze caused something to snap. The thong. Apparently it simply couldn't hold up under the pressure. Personally, I don't blame it.

I'm not really sure if there's a scientific explanation for it, or if fate just couldn't pass this opportunity up, but the thong snapped, broke, and went flying through the air whereupon it slapped the kind old gentleman across the face and sort of hung there like a birthday party streamer. And that was the last sight I saw as I went running from the restaurant. Okay, walking fast - those heels were really high. My husband never noticed a thing.

I've never been back to Bart's Burger Buffet where they had to have the salad bar and the old man fumigated. The high heels are collecting dust in the top of my closet and I haven't worn a thong since because my rear end still has nightmares of the whole sordid experience. I have an anniversary coming up. Hubby wants to take me out to dinner. I'm thinking I'll go look for something sexy.