One is in the closet reading. again.
One is slogging through homework. again.
One is on the couch because of naughtiness. again.
Yelling, “Someone read Hoppity to me.”
One is crying at my legs to be held. held. held.
The computer is blaring out music and over the din
I heard something to the effect of the singer
missing the sound of pitter-patter feet
and I think, “What? I can’t even hear the feet.”
Supper is smoking away on the stove.
Toys scattered across the floor.
Mr Lifesaver comes in and takes Little One.
Big One comes to help.
Middle One finishes work.
And the Naughty One is off the couch
and on to other business.
Amid much action.
Lots of talking.
We heave a sigh and finish.
Table cleaned by little people.
Big One reads Hoppity to the Son in her best Daviess Co impersonation.
Middle One whisper reads to herself to win a prize at school.
Little One plays with her Dad on the floor.
Counter top cleaned.
I sink in a chair.
And I listen.
A few projects finished and the night is over.
And I write to remember.
To remember the chaos.
The noise. The fights.
They tell me I’ll forget.
They even sing songs about it.
And I wonder, how will I ever forget THIS?
Just maybe someday, it will be quiet.
And then I’ll probably wish for noise.