Monday, February 18, 2013

Quiet Time

father and son shadowIt’s Sunday evening.  The sun is just beginning to set, its orange rays sift in through the blinds, leaving distinct shadows on the wall.  The dogs are asleep, tuckered out from their morning run in the woods.  I’m in the recliner, enjoying the rhythmic sounds of the house.
The breast pump whines softly, humming in harmonic melody with the baby swing.  Together they perform what has become the soundtrack to my weekends. 
I'm enjoying quiet time these days like I never imagined.  Bits and pieces of rest when the elements of our house align and nap times coincide.  Animals and baby, completely asleep.  These precious moments are as rare as they are short.
This is usually when someone knocks on the door, and bedlam ensues.  The dogs begin their riot, barking furiously and aimlessly in all directions, ready to defend the baby against threats such as gift bearing neighbors or elderly couples on an evening stroll.
I scream at the dogs in a whisper that would make a librarian blush.  But it’s of no use, the baby is awake, and he suddenly remembers that he really, really, wants to eat.  He wants a boob in his mouth yesterday, and I run around trying to restore order, but it's no use, the moment is over.
I'm reminded of a childhood memory.
coffee pot
When I was around 9, my parents used to have what was referred to as coffee time.  Twenty to thirty minutes after dinner in the seclusion of the den.  I would wait by the door, watching the clock on the microwave with torturous anticipation.  Finally, they would come out, relaxed and refreshed until I would hit my dad with a barrage of questions I had thought of during my idle time alone.
As a child, I had no idea why they would want to spend time away from the kids, (or maybe just me, as I seemed to be the only one lying on the floor next to the door).  But now I get it.  They needed a moment to themselves, to unwind after a long day and enjoy each other's company...away from the hyperactive ball of annoying awaiting them on the other side.  And who could blame them? I'm tired just thinking about my younger self.
So chalk another one up for parents….the older I get the righter they were…


  1. With a mother who raised the four boys pretty much all by herself, I feel a lot of respect for how she handled it, and even more guilt about complaining about ANYTHING. How right they are.

    The Cheeky Daddy

  2. As I recall, Pete, we usually didn't really have "quiet" time, we had "ignore-the-whining-mumbling-kid-by-the-door" time. LOL

    1. I gave you guys 5 or 10 solid minutes, after that it became unbearable!