The Sound of Silence
The only thing worse than waking with “Dragon Tales” in my head first thing in the morning is when first thing in the morning happens at 12:35am. Wait. Let me revise that: waking up at 12:35am with “Barney” on the brain is definitely worse, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. But it really blows that my mind instantly conjures up these at first seemingly innocuous, but truly insidious, little tunes before I can even pry my eyes open. I finally gave into the fact that I wasn’t sleeping and, instead of doing bun exercises (ala Kathie Lee Gifford) to my silent songs while lying prone, I decided to drag myself to the computer. Life isn’t simple, though, and on my way I busted Ella sleeping on the couch. Though my tone was sharp and abrupt, I sort of felt sorry for her as I woke her from a tightly curled up position (which I rather resented at the moment) with a harsh and pointed “Ella, NO!”, to which she startled, jumped down, tucked her tail between her legs and ran off to her kennel. The dog has at her disposal every single surface in this house, including our bed and two of her own, and my only wish is to maintain one small space that is free of dog hair. Harumph. Just a stress-free segue into what has been a slightly stressful 10 days (understatement).
We dropped my mother at the airport last night which brought to close a two-week onslaught of grandparents. Note to self: do NOT allow Grandparental Units to conduct back-to-back visits. Why I persist in attempting such radical stunts before learning what, for most humans, would probably be an intuitive lesson, is a toxic form of familial masochism. I love ‘em all but HOLY CRAP! The past two weeks has been one extended exercise in patience, letting go and biting of tongues. After saying our good-byes at the airport this evening, Sam and I let out a collective sigh—I’m fairly certain I heard Ruby release a small chirp of relief, too—and began our ritual decompression consisting of a few loud expletives (5 bucks each to the college fund) and an out-of-chronological-order re-hashing of each event that had pushed us to the limit.
There was the endless humming; non-stop talking at deafening decibles; 7 phone calls to Wisconsin during each day to find out “what the weather was like back home”; complaints of aching knees or the joint-pain-of-the-moment and the overall sucky proceess of getting old; audible outbursts of bodily functions that are only cute and/or acceptable when they come from the baby; dirty old man jokes; dirty old man sexist jokes; and did I mention the non-stop talking yet?
There was lots of talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk to anyone in the room or not in the room. Talk to the baby. Talk about the baby. Talk to the new parents. Talk on the phone. Talk to the dog. Talk to the computer. Talk to the neighbor or the stranger at the park. Oh! My! God! If any of you think that I can talk, you must meet my each of our mothers. Now, LISTENING…well, listening is a whole different challenge which, I have to say, Sam and I met with Gold Medal contention. It’s difficult to admit but it’s true: Ruby’s grandmas don’t engage in a whole lot of listening.
Sticking to just my side of the family, listening skills are both crucial and sorely lacking in my mother and therefore, major hand holding is required if the desired result is anything resembling communication. As a policy, we accept the reality that communication is going to break down and remain that way throughout the duration of her visits and we’re becoming increasingly proficient at managing this set of circumstances. During her most recent stay, however, things really devolved when Sam had to PHYSICALLY SHOVE Gaye Donna out of the way. This happened more than once, actually, until he finally shrugged, gave up and let her struggle with the poop all over the nursery rather than intervene in the final diaper change fiasco. The first shove, though, was instinctual; a fight-or-flight type of decision. She “was just trying to be helpful” and opened the door to the mailman, despite us repeatedly telling her not to do this since Ella thinks it’s fun to run through the hole she made in our screen door when we first brought her home. Of course, my mother didn’t listen to us and for a very long 15 or 20 seconds, all hell broke loose in this house. Ella bolted to greet the unlucky visitor, Perrito (my mother’s Chihuahua who travels in a sweater that reads “Service Dog.” For reals.) followed in Ella’s shadow yapping incessantly, Ruby squeeled with glee at the doggie commotion from her safe distance in my arms, I tsk-tsked my mother from across the room and Sam quietly—if a bit roughly—threw elbows, kicked Perrito out of the way, grabbed Ella’s collar with one hand, the stack of mail with the other and offered profuse apologies to the exasperated mailman who grumbled that he’d already been knocked down and bitten that day. Given this level of chaos and energy is sustained over a 5 day period, I can barely believe we made it to the end of her visit alive and physically unscathed. I generally fall into a deep sleep (some may say coma) immediately following the end of a visit. So, the fact that I’m awake now may be a sign of a quickening recovery time. Or severe trauma. Not sure which.
Right now, thankfully, all I hear is the rain outside, the clicking of the keyboard, the hum of the computer and the night-coo’s from Ruby’s bedroom. These next few days, things will return to normal, which is not to say uneventful or unbusy. But getting back to our usual routine will be a like going on a tropical vacation. Which, in all reality, is only 3 and-a-half weeks away. Sigh. I can’t wait.
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