I used to consider myself a pretty good listener. I like quiet. In fact, I relish the ability to sit alone in silence. There are times I’ll find myself alone in the house with no sound other than the refrigerator hum (and occasional gurgle, spit, and chug because it’s been threatening to die for the past three years. Stupid refrigerator sending false death alerts. Good thing it’s not hooked up to one of those emergency alert systems. We’d owe a ton in false alarms. Note to fridge: there is NO need for you to prove you can die anytime you want by actually doing so. Also, you never signed a DNR so all I’m saying is: try it).
In the middle of the night when I wake for whatever reason: an explicable need to check that children are properly covered, to use the bathroom, to sneak downstairs and eat more Cheetos — I hear the birds. The birds sing all night long. Has that always happened in spring? Sure, I’m used to them when I wake, but shouldn’t the birds be asleep at 3:00 a.m., not perched on my window sill casually singing and glancing judging bird eyes in my kitchen window while I sneak Cheetos?
I can hear a neighbor’s music. I can hear something I’m glad I can’t see rummaging through our trash outside. I am listening to the wind against the window, listening to the wind make the tree bump against the deck, its branches swiping the window. I hear water running. I listen closely to find its source and then go jiggle the toilet handle.
On Saturday mornings, I sit and listen to the birds. I listen to the hum of the lucky for us still running fridge, maybe the rhythm of the dryer, the sizzle of the bacon. One child will bound in, all let’s get this party started. Soon there’s another, moving slower, making a shuffle sound in her slippers. Later, I’ll go to the bottom of the stairs to listen for the third. I’ll hear her turn, readjust her position under the covers, and I’ll smile. Maybe she’s enjoying the quiet of having two less people interrupt her slumber.
I listen to these things and take notice, take the time to breathe in all the different sounds.
The boy is telling me he wants to watch a movie and he needs to do it while eating blackberries. I listen and do his bidding.
The middle girl wants to go downstairs and play with her dolls while watching TV. I listen and say OK.
When the too-tall-for-11 girl wakes and comes down, she will be silent. I will smile at her, but I will be silent. She will peek into the kitchen to see what is being prepared –the bacon, eggs, applesauce, and toast — then disappear. She doesn’t want what I’m making; I know. I won’t know where she’s gone. Back to bed? Into the bathroom? Downstairs? On the sofa? I listen for her footsteps but they’re so light, going away from me, away from my attempts to listen.
Listening to her signals is becoming more difficult. Listening to her cues for leave me alone, I hate Spanish class, I don’t like the way you make cabbage, this is the best oatmeal ever, I like how you’ve done my hair, are increasingly tough. Reading her correctly, appropriately gauging her — those times are fleeting. Yet, there is an understood ability to hear one another. Without sound I will place her food on the table. Her plate is not like the others. There is oatmeal, grapes, eggs. She will appear, having made no creak of the floorboards to arrive in front of me. She will sit without the chair exhaling or scraping the floor. I will walk away, but I’m listening, listening for her acknowledgment that I knew, I sensed, I listened to her silence and responded appropriately.
For this day, the oatmeal serves as a bridge back into the ability to read her well. The whisper of “thank you” makes my ears perk up.
Hoo-boy. Puberty is starting to kick in with my oldest and you are right–you stop relying so much on words and just watch. Carefully.
This was so beautifully written! And now you’ve got me listening. I hope I’m really listening.
I want to be as in tune with my kids as you are here. One day they’ll do it for their kids and that’s when you’ll really feel that “thank you.”
Oh, I love this … such a vivid set of images of life, real life, full of love and noise and also quiet. xoxo
You give me goosebumps.
beautiful Arnebya!
lovely~ I almost felt like I was in your kitchen eating breakfast with your family!
This was beautifully written! Although most of the kids in our house are younger than yours, we do have a 5 year old who does most of his communicating through his silences. Your evocative piece reminds me that it’s really important just to LISTEN to what he’s not saying out loud.
Thank you all so much. I see so much of myself in her, it’s important to remember that everything she’s thinking, feeling, considering, is relatable to my own experiences as a child. If I hold on to that, maybe I’ll be able to get through the teen years.
This was beautifully written …your writing is always so good that I feel part of your post..i could imagine myself right there in the middle of your ktchen trying to listen with you..
I’ve got a feeling you’ll get through the teen years just fine!
When Ash turned 10 just last month, I could feel a shift in our communication. I knew it was going to come but I didn’t expect it so soon. What her younger sister still wants/needs to put into words, Ash doesn’t. I am too…listening for what is unsaid and doing my best. Sometimes, it works out beautifully like a plate full of oatmeal, grapes and eggs. <3
Listening to the quiet is a gift. A true gift. Kudos to you!
Awe this was so beautiful! Your writing is amazing! Seriously! I felt like I could really visualize what was happening. I hope that when I need this, I’ll remember it.
you couldn’t have written this any better!
Lovely post. Thank you for the reminder to really listen – especially to the silence.
I could almost hear the sounds, and the silence you described.
The way you talked about your connections with your children – beautiful. Listening to their needs whether spoken or not.
Thanks, Kim. I hope that ability to listen sticks.
Those unsaid words are the hardest to hear, and yet we need to listen to them even more carefully! I hope I’m up to the task as my daughters grow older.
Ginny, I hope I’m up to it too! I hope I can keep it up, hope that my listening doesn’t fail me. It’s hard sometimes (as my husband could probably explain rather well) for me to shut my mouth. I am trying to rely on listening only to pick up her cues.
I remember the sound of a frig compressor working it’s way toward kicking the bucket—I delightedly picked out a new frig that has so much more space!
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be able to do that. I need this fridge to putter along another year or two. And then? Then it’s on: straight up stainless steel hugeness!
I can feel this disconnect emerging with my own daughter and you captured it so well! That feeling when you get a glimmer of the nice girl you raised beneath the irritated mess of her hormones.