Too Quiet, or Not Too Quiet?


To quiet, or not to quiet? That is the question.

Whether it is nobler in the mother’s mind to suffer

The slinging of oatmeal and outrageous misdemeanors?

Or to take arms against a sea of Legos and fussy eating?

And by resisting, end them. To stop. To quiet.

No more! And by quiet, we settle

The frustration and the million mental shocks

that parenthood is often heir to. It is something

Fervently to be wished for. To quiet, even to rest

To rest, maybe even sleep? There’s the rub!

For in that sleep, what dreams might come,

when the kids are silent? It must give us pause and respect

for the insanity that exists in the title of “parent.**

**Adapted from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1.

That, my peoples, is really a glimpse into the craziness that was my morning. It was quiet, then it wasn’t. And I did take up arms (and by that I mean the timeout timer), but it didn’t quiet down as much as I was hoping for. And yet, despite tempers, and whining about oatmeal (and subsequently not eating it), doodling around with socks for 10 minutes, and freaking out because they were cleaned (egad, you’ll have to get new dirt!)… I find myself sitting here. Daycare drop off is finished. They’re playing happily with their friends. And here I am with my cold tea. Already missing them.

Insanity indeed.

The Handler.

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