If you’ve had kids—or have been around kids—you will know exactly what I’m talking about here. You know how a house with at least one little kid in it is a cornucopia of noises. There’s always some kid thing going on, and it is accompanied by its own soundtrack of chatter, crashes, and glee. Even one kid will jabber away while they play. As a parent, you know that the time to get worried about what the kids are doing is when it gets quiet. Quiet means a kid is up to no good and that they are savvy enough to put on the cloak of silence in order to not get caught doing a bad, but super interesting, deed. Quiet means the ball of 1000 rubber bands in the desk drawer very well might now be in the toilet.
Our house is kind of like that still, even though I’m alone in it most days. I talk to myself. I talk to Skitter. I sing. I think out loud. I narrate whatever task occupies my time. I am often loud, just to be loud. But I’ve been uncharacteristically quiet in the house this week. It’s making me a touch nervous. I’m suspicious my own brain is plotting something bigly I don’t want to know about. 🤡