the painful quiet

We are expecting MORE snow here in Minnesota.  In fact, by the time this posts, we are likely to have a few more inches of snow, slush, ice and tears from all the residents weeping over the loss of their springtime flooding our streets and souls.

Being that I work on Mondays and my girls spend that time with my parents, my parents graciously offered to take them overnight and save me the trip, in what will be a longer morning commute.

We dropped the girls after church, gave kisses and didn't look back.
The afternoon was OURS!
Nate watched baseball, uninterrupted.
I napped, uninterrupted.
We watch last week's Survivor, uninterrupted (HOLY CRAP!  DID YOU SEE THAT TRIBAL COUCIL!?)
We even ate (hot, fresh from of the container) Chinese take-out , uninterrupted.
We did A LOT of things, uninterrupted!

But as the sun set, and the house got darker, it immediately quieter.
And not the good kind of quiet.

I thought to myself, this is what our life was like all the time before we had kids.
We didn't know any different on a Sunday afternoon.
We'd veg, and couch, and nap and mentally prepare to enter to working world the next morning, bright-eyed and full of wonder.
The main task of the weekend was to wash the only two loads of laundry we'd need all week, walking through a toy-free hallway to have everything neat and complete in less than two hours.
There may have been a Target run to restock dinner makings, and a change of the sheets, but really, the extent of our actual responsibilities (or those TIME SUCK items) were extremely minimal.

The quiet was unnoticed.
The quiet was expected.
The quiet was taken for granted.

I love that I don't have to wrestle my kids out of bed tomorrow, and ready them to trek the snow (again!) before going in to work.
I love that I can eat a hot meal with my feet up (hooray!)
I love that I can pick up the toy room and have it stay that way while there's still daylight.

Despite stuffing myself with spring rolls and fried rice (twice) I'm going to feel incredibly empty when I walk past their open, dark, empty bedroom on my way to sleep.
I groan a lot.
A lot.
And I know it.
So I guess it's true - you never know what you have until it's gone.
Or at least gone for the night.

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1 comment:

~Dawn~ said...

I know those feelings. It's great for the first few hours of "uninterupted" but, soon the quietness sets in and I'm missing the hell out of my little rugrats!

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