Moments of silence give way to clamor

I crave quiet. I feel starved for silence; like an Atkins dieter in a bakery, it’s the one thing I long for but am constantly denied. My husband and I have four sons. They don’t even sleep quietly. I’ve got two who snore and two who wake up talking, fall asleep talking and continue to chatter while they slumber.

My day is filled with noise – the din of TV, games and computer mixed with the general hubbub of male rowdiness. I’d love to hear civilized conversations instead of belching competitions.

Silence is so rare in my house that it frightens me. It usually means someone’s tied up, or something’s broken and everyone’s lying low. Yearning for quiet has been part of my life since my eldest was born 15 years ago. I’d almost given up hope.

And then a miracle occurred. My son agreed to be a counselor at the same camp two of his younger brothers were attending. For one week I would have an only child. That’s when I had an idea of staggering genius. Why couldn’t I send Sam to his grandparents for a few days and enjoy an empty house?

Two phone calls resulted in two happy grandmothers. Sam had been feeling sad as he heard his siblings talk about the fun they’d have at camp. Then I told him he was having a Two Grandma Sleepover Extravaganza, while his brothers were gone. He was delighted to be leaving home and packed immediately.

Monday morning I deposited three of my offspring at church to catch their bus to camp. I took Sam to his first sleepover destination and hurried home to my blissfully quiet house.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, savoring the silence. All that day the house was quiet. It was a wonderful day.

Surprisingly, Tuesday felt a bit like the day after Christmas. The glow had worn off, and the silence was starting to make me nervous. I sat down to get some writing done. The blank computer screen glared at me. I called my husband at work to let him listen to the silence.

“Isn’t it great, honey?” he said.

“Yeah, I love it … it’s just … really … you know … quiet.”

“Well, you enjoy every minute of it. You deserve it,” he said as he hung up.

I wandered through the boys’ rooms, marveling at the cleanness: their beds neatly made, all their toys and books on the shelves, and no dirty socks on the floor! The silence felt unnatural, so I spent the rest of the day at the mall.

That night I found myself drawn again to those empty bedrooms. Tomorrow Sam would be home, making enough noise for at least three children. In a few days these rooms would be overflowing with stinky laundry and dirty boys. And then the noise …

Lying on Sam’s bed, I clutched his forgotten Teddy and promised myself I wouldn’t complain about the shrieking, shouting rambunctious behavior that floods my home when the boys are here. I’d had my sliver of silence.

Forty-eight hours later, the decibel level in our home approached Led Zepplin concert status. Sam and Zack shrieked and chased each other around the house with wet beach towels. The sound of machine gun fire echoed as Alex tried to master another electronic game. Ethan’s yelling approached operatic volume.

My husband sat in the middle, reading the newspaper. “How can you read with all this noise?” I asked.

He looked up, befuddled. “Hmm … what honey?”

“Never mind.” I sighed and slipped out the door. Suddenly I was starved for silence again. Maybe I should’ve given myself more time to get used to the quiet. I should’ve tried harder to acclimate my ears.

“Mom! Moooom!” a babble of voices clamored.

“There she is behind the tree!” Whap! The door slammed. Running feet pounded toward me. The three-day quiet had only whet my appetite. Next year I’m going for five.