If you have little kids, you know the feeling: The house is suddenly perfectly, eerily, forebodingly silent.
What are the kids into and how did it happen so fast? Weren’t they just underfoot, yelping and screeching, seconds ago?
The realization that the house is too quiet is usually followed by the discovery of mischief of one kind or another. I have hidden the scissors, the markers, the glue. All outlet covers are blocked with safety plugs. I enrolled the dog in self defense classes. And yet, I still panic with memories of the last Silent Time – 87 puzzles all dumped (silently? how was that even possible?) into a mountain range of pieces. I. Hate. Doing. Puzzles. That was a very dark day for me.
So when the house got quiet, I dashed out of the kitchen and checked the puzzle shelf first: in order.
The bathroom: empty.
The stairs: no kids.
The back door: closed and locked.
And then, the dining room, where I found my boys reading books on the floor, looking up at me as if to say, “What’s the matter, Mom? Haven’t you ever seen us quietly entertain ourselves?”
No. No I haven’t. And I took a picture, because I probably never will again.