So there I was, doing the dishes dutifully in the kitchen, when it hit me: MY KID ISN’T MAKING ANY NOISE.
Those of you without children will not understand the terror this normally welcome occurrence can induce in a parent. You see, when a child is silent…it’s probably DEAD. That’s because kids are never quiet. Especially mine. Her mouth runs at a speed Usain Bolt would envy. And her volume puts Pantera to shame. I never worry about where she is or what she’s doing because I always know where she is and what she’s doing. That’s because I can hear her.
All the time.
Wherever I am.
No matter what.
So this time–suds on my hands and fear in my throat–I darted away from the kitchen sink to locate my dear 2-year-old and ascertain her situation. I quickly swung my head around the door frame and looked into the living room. And there she was.
Reading a book. Just reading a book.
I was suddenly stopped dead in my tracks by a toddler doing the last thing in the world I expected her to. I mean, she loves books. I read to her all the time. It’s one of our favorite things to do. But her alone? Without provocation? Surrounded by toys that beep and whizz and fizzzzblop-a-dop? As a wise man once said: “Inconceivable.”
But golden nonetheless.