Peace Without Quiet
Saturday was a very good but very tiring day. I'd spent 24 uninterrupted hours with my kids in the car, at a hotel, and at an early morning swim meet. We all had a surprisingly good time together, but we were ready to separate when we came home.
My daughter snagged the computer first. She needed to type up the "Let It Go" lyrics she'd methodically written down in her room the day before. My son slunk up to his room to do whatever it is he does with all those LEGO pieces. I unpacked, then lay down on my bed.
I had no plan to sleep. I was happy to be supine, alone, and quiet. I lay there watching the sky change color as the sun set, reveling in the fact that each of us was happy to have a little alone time.
That's when I realized that, although I had peace, I had no quiet. Across the hall, my son made quiet battle noises, acting out some LEGO drama. In the kitchen, my daughter sang an off-key but heartfelt rendition of "Let It Go."
I lay there and listened to the sounds of my children happily doing the things they love most, and I realized that the best quiet isn't really quiet at all.