Cello strains of “O Come O Come, Emmanuel” were suddenly the only sounds in my living room. It’s quiet, I realized as I savored the last crumbs of my peanut butter toast. Too quiet. So quiet, I can feel everything.
My coffee has cooled over the last three hours I’ve been awake. Two separate waves of skiers out the door, warm breakfast burritos wrapped in tin foil and carefully labeled with duct tape in hand. The dog won’t leave my side-he senses something is up. It’s that kind of quiet that most moms of teens dream of – the kind of quiet when you know the day is spread out before you like a deserted path, and you have no idea which direction to go. The kind of quiet when your monkey mind settles and creative juices start to flow. The kind of quiet when you can snuggle back into bed, throw up the covers and dream long, glorious dreams.
This is kind of quiet that, for me, calls to be filled with activity. A walk. A to-do list. Cleaning the house, top to bottom, washing and folding and sweeping and weeding and baking and organizing and…
anything to fill the quiet – the kind of quiet that my monkey mind clamors all over and wishes it were filled with the sounds of him playing Christmas carols on the piano, the giggles of girls decorating Christmas cookies and the whispers of friends in the other room, sharing stories saved from long months spent alone…
There are two kinds of quiet. The kind of quiet when I hear the candles flicker, feel the crumbs drop onto my plate, and the Christmas music plays on and on and on. The kind of quiet that mothers dream of, and the kind they dread, one in the same.
Be careful what you wish for.
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