Today’s column is about nothing. That’s right. It’s about
absolutely nothing
– which, coincidentally, is what I did on the first day of
school. Oh, OK. I did do one or two things.
Today’s column is about nothing. That’s right. It’s about absolutely nothing – which, coincidentally, is what I did on the first day of school. Oh, OK. I did do one or two things.
Let’s see, I got up out of bed. I managed to dress myself and make breakfast for Junior. And I walked him to school, returning last year’s class lizard who spent her entire summer vacation with our lizard competing for Junior’s affections.
And then I came home and did nothing.
I didn’t water the plants. I didn’t touch up the bathroom paint. I didn’t clean the kitchen. I did nothing. Because school had started, and I wanted to revel in the quiet.
I wanted to stand in the middle of my family room and rejoice because I wouldn’t be watching “SpongeBob SquarePants” with breakfast. In fact, I could eat cold leftover pizza for breakfast and nobody would know. I could even dance around the kitchen in my underwear and only the dog would know.
I’m telling you it was heaven. The sound of the silence was intoxicating. The windows were open, and I could hear an unfamiliar chirping. After a minute I figured out that it was actually a bird singing.
During summer vacation, I didn’t hear many birds. Instead, I heard frequent requests for favorite shorts, food, drinks, watermelon, Game Cube games, swimming, biking, trips to the movies, the aquatic center, Disneyland and mini golf – but not so many birds.
And just between you and me – after a few minutes of standing around enjoying the quiet, I got a little sad. I mean, sure it’s great to get the house back. And sure, when I clean the living room I can be assured that it will stay clean until around 2:45 when Junior comes home from school – which is hours longer than it stays clean over the summer.
But there’s nobody chattering to me incessantly about game strategy for “Shrek 2.” The doorbell isn’t ringing with a constant rotation of children cycling in and out. Even the pool is empty. I could actually put on my bathing suit and float around without having to dodge water basketballs and squirt guns.
And yet, I miss the basketballs and squirt guns. Go figure. After a summer of constant activity, downtime seems, well … down. I thought that the first day of school would be great. That I would enjoy doing absolutely, positively nothing all day long.
Turns out, I don’t like it all that much. The quiet is too quiet. The chirping of the birds hurts my ears. The silent door gives me a headache. And the playroom’s emptiness makes me sad. Because another summer spent with Junior is over and done with.
And I can’t get it back. We will never have another summer when he’s nine and still loves me and thinks I just might know everything. Never. Last year at the very end a teacher told me that Junior, as an incoming fourth grader, was officially a big kid. And when I stopped and thought about it, I realized that Junior might be ready for the transition from Mommy’s Little Boy to Fourth Grade Man of the World, but I wasn’t.
And just like last summer, when I wasn’t ready to trade bedtime stories like “My Monster Mama Loves Me So” for “Captain Underpants and The Attack of the
Talking Toilets” I’m not ready for my son to grow up. I still want to be the foremost authority on everything from why the sky is blue to how to be a good friend when someone doesn’t want to be your friend.
But another summer is gone. And another transition is happening. And my son is working his way from little kid to big kid. And soon he’ll work his way from big kid to teenager and teen to adult. And I know when that happens, I’ll go nuts in my house, listening to those darned birds sing.
But right now, while the house is quiet and the rooms are empty, I just want one more day of chaotic, noisy summer. Just one. And then I’ll let him be a big kid. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Laurie Sontag is a Gilroy writer and mom who wishes parenthood had come with instructions. Her column is syndicated. She can be reached at la****@la**********.com.
