The Good Silence

It feels strange saying it, after complaining for so many weeks – or months? But I am feeling okay. With my house almost empty and a lighter schedule, I have, indeed, been resting.

I think it is important to mention it, and to acknowledge it to oneself, when it happens. So many times, when things slow down or vacation time comes, our mind keeps pointing out everything that is wrong, or stressful in its own different way, and we come back from these official periods of rest complaining that we now need vacations from our families, from losing our routine, or the logistics traveling often involves. And we might very well come back flustered and out of sync.

But this time I have decided to enjoy my time off, even if it is happening mostly in the city. Even if we haven’t left yet, or not quite. Even if I can get bored senseless between the hours of 3 pm and 7 pm every day, trying to occupy my six-year-old who is alone and therefore quiet, yes. But also, less likely to play with his older brother and to keep himself busy. I sense my mind going there. “If his brother were here, I wouldn’t need to come up with things for him to do”, it whispers. “If his brother were here, I would feel less guilty about leaving them at camp for extended day, I would give myself that time more easily”. Yes, but also, if his brother were here, the house wouldn’t be so silent. Toys would be scattered all around the house. Flashes and sounds would be heard across the apartment at all times. Dinners would – and will soon! - be chaotic.

One week from now, everybody will be back home, and God knows what complaint I will come up with then. Actually, I have an idea. The mounds of dirty, smelly laundry that will come back as well. I can already see the pile, see myself wanting to sit on the floor and weep. I am already coming up with plans to deal with it. Making mental lists of podcasts that will be needed to go through endless mounds of dirt-stained camp t-shirts. Wondering if I should hire someone just for that job, for a couple of days? Thinking of the vacation packing that will need to happen right after that. The infinite cycle of clothes, sunscreen and toiletries. Moving so many times gave me a packing phobia of sorts, it would seem.

But then I try to bring myself back into this moment right now, sitting in my favorite armchair in the library. When it’s still just me, and my laptop. Next week at this time, I will have a full house. A bunch of antsy kids still high on the camp vibe but also wanting to rest and stay home – God forbid I signed them up for a day camp after that. I tried once in the past, not twice. There was a mutiny of sorts. I know from experience they will NOT want to be placed in a group setting again until the end of the summer. While at the same time complaining that there is nothing to do.

The house will be messy, I will be losing my mind and dying to go back to the silence of today. 

It would feel so wrong to complain about children coming back from camp, however. When so many little girls in Texas will not be coming home this summer. I have been haunted by it since Friday. While enjoying a weekend in Vermont, and seeing my children, carefree in the sun on the pictures we receive from their camp every morning. The guilt, the anxiety attached to it.

I feel silly, if not ashamed, complaining about packing for several weeks and blog posts. It hadn’t crossed my mind, back then, that a child could not come back from camp. The lakes, the rivers. This décor we take for granted. This space for laughter and adventure. Suddenly becoming a biblical monster of sorts, washing away these little girls. Their mattresses, their lovies, their dreams. I couldn’t fall sleep for several nights, thinking about them.

What to do, then? I have given money; I pray every night for the girls’ parents and families. With my own strange words, those of someone who grew up without a religion. I try to focus on the good things in front of me every day, on my son at home right now.

Yesterday he didn’t swim at camp and lied to me about it. His towel was perfectly dry, and he wasn’t on the pool pictures. I was upset. But seeing him cry and say sorry and clean up all his toys without my prompting, it was hard to stay angry for very long. He was there, finding out what it means to do the wrong thing, to make mistakes and take responsibility. He was there, and I was so moved I could have cried.   

Because he felt chastened, he agreed to keep working on the 1000-piece puzzled we abandoned last week. I made tremendous progress that night, after he went to sleep. Instead of planning the last two weeks of August when I still don’t know what to do with my kids, what to do with the whole family. I always find new ways to procrastinate, it appears.                         

But I have children to worry about, vacation time to fill up. The whole family is here, or will be, if nothing happens between now and Tuesday. It feels like such a privilege just now.

So, yes, I am enjoying my silence. The silence that comes before the storm. The silence of people being away and being missed. An absence that can be enjoyed because we know it is only temporary.

“I miss missing you”, said the pastor at the church we started attending occasionally on Sundays. A church for people like us, who didn’t have a church before. He was talking about being reunited with a family member after a few weeks of absence. The joy, but also the ambivalence that comes with it. We missed them, and we also enjoyed the peace and simplicity that came with their absence. It was good to miss them for a while. Necessary, even.

This rings true particularly for my teenagers. I do wonder what the rest of the summer will look like. How many eyerolls I will get daily. How we will handle the stress of upcoming college applications, that will need to begin in August.            

I will miss missing them. But only because I know they