The Sound of Silence

It struck me the other day how incredibly well I've adjusted to the sounds of motherhood.

I was on the phone with the receptionist of the Overhead Door Company, politely discussing scheduling options to diagnose our finicky garage door (a story for another time), when the question seemed to come out of left field: "So how old is the baby?" It took me a moment to process the question before realizing that I had tuned out the carousel-esque tone of the Playskool train as it cycled through railroad-themed songs, not to be outdone by the Tickle-and-Bounce-Me Elmo as he proclaimed, "Toss Elmo! Higher!" All the while Marie babbled happily in the other corner of the playard, attempting with all her might to tip the plastic slide-about twice the size of her--onto its side.


CRASH! Mission accomplished.

"Oh, um, she just turned one" I uttered distractedly as I watched the slide settle into its new position. Ms. Overhead Garage Door cooed from the other end, and we discussed the joys of one-year-olds for a moment before getting back to business. Yet after hanging up the phone, I was still mulling over the not-so-white noise that had become my greatest consolation. I thought back to college when I would--in a meager effort to concentrate on schoolwork--attempt to block out the sound of a roomate's phone conversation, antics in the hallway, or the loud base beat from the room above ours which shook ceiling and walls in time; to no avail. I sometimes found that putting on soft music of my own could serve as a coping mechanism, but more often than not it turned into a distraction as well. Now, in a few short years, I realize that it's not just the sounds in my life that have changed drastically, but my reaction to them as well.

The cacophany of wailing that fills my home is no longer noise to me; it serves as communication. From it, I can calculate whether Marie is hungry, tired, or simply mad that I won't let her have her own way. A screaming child in church no longer phases me (unless it is my own child, whom I quickly attempt to appease if that's the case). And the bantering of toys in the playard--constantly talking, singing, clanging, counting--has become my consolation that all is good and well in Marie land.

In fact, I discovered with wry fascination that it is no longer the presence of noise, but the absence of it, that makes me a crazed woman. When all the singing and chattering has ceased, when all the clattering of slides and carts tipping over is absent, the little panic button in the back of my brain starts screaming at me through the serene calm. I've come to think of it as the calm before the storm. My muscles tense up, allowing me to spring as quickly as possible from the kitchen, or hall, or bedroom, eyes searching wildly for a little 2-foot imp. Many times she is sitting peacefully in the playard, simply letting her mind soak in a good little book. But there was the time she was standing on her little plastic drum, attempting to climb over the playard gate, oblivious to the 4 foot drop on the other side. And the time that she had wandered down the hall into her room and proceeded to empty her diaper pail (hence calling for an immediate bath). And the many times she's made a beeline for Samson's drool-covered water dish or his own bin of soggy toys, smiling with glee the whole way. Like any good stealth, it is these times that she's not only unbelievely quiet, but somehow manages to move lightning-fast. Thus, silence is no longer my friend.

I've heard a few mothers remark that some days they simply cannot take the noise anymore. For me, I fear the opposite as our family grows. With two, I accept the fact that the noise will mount significantly. Perhaps even exponentially. I just hope that when those moments of silence arrive, my ability to maintain a clear head improves significantly, along with my speed!