Too Much Noise

There is this book that the kids and I love where the main character, Peter, is all up in arms because his house is so noisy. The bed creaks, the floor squeaks, the tea kettle whistles, the leaves rustle. Peter, as you can see in the cover illustration, is not a content man.

He does what all storybook characters of a certain age do when they have a problem; he goes to see the wise man of the village. The wise man mentors Peter through the endlessly amusing task of bringing a series of noisy animals in his little house.

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The wise man tells Peter to get a cow. Then he tells Peter to get a donkey, then a sheep, a hen, a dog, and a cat.

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Peter does as he is told, he gets himself one of each of these animals, and then he gets pissed.

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He returns to the wise man, fists raised in fury, and positively blows a gasket describing the moos and clucks and meows and baaas and woofs that are now corrupting his house.

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The wise man tells Peter to get rid of the cat. And the dog. And the hen, the sheep, the donkey, and the cow.

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Peter does as he is told. Then he sits in his house, and the bed creaks.

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"Ahhhh", says Peter.

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The floor squeaks,

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“mmmmm” says Peter.

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The teakettle whistles, the leaves rustle,

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“Ahhhh, mmmmm” says Peter.

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He loves his quiet house.

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I need to find the wise man of my village, because my life is too noisy and I don’t have any barnyard animals to get rid of. Sure, I could eliminate the woof, but that’s honestly the least of my problems. It’s the incessant talking that is bringing out the Peter in me.

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At work, the people love to communicate. I am constantly being forced to break away from my blogging work to respond, resolve, reassure, redirect, and reprimand as needed. But I get paid for this discourse so I really can’t complain.

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When I leave work, however, my time is my own and my mouth just wants to stay shut.

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At the gym, I don’t have to talk. I’m not a whooper or a small talker. I’m just there to get the job done.

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But when I get home, I don’t have a single digit in the door before my peeps start in with the talking. Questions, stories, announcements, questions, songs, fights, questions, requests, questions, questions, questions, QUESTIONS

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why aren't they on the high dive? how many flips was that? why isn't the board bouncy? which one is USA? are we winning? we're americans, right? when's the election? what if it's a tie? will george washington get to stay president? why is the board so bouncy? are we winning? why'd george washington start the war in iraq? is it over yet? are we winning? what will you say if barack wins? will you be so happy you'll cry? why are the boys wearing those little blue panties? what would your face look like if you won the bronze?

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until I LOSE IT. I’m like Sharpay during all the singing and dancing in the cafeteria when she steps up to the railing and yells: “Everybody QUIET!”

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And then I just stand there and soak up the blessed (albeit stunned) silence for a minute before I allow the guilt to creep in about what a mean wife and mommy I am to wish so desperately for a mute button to control my own family.

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Following the logic of Peter’s wise man, I could either encourage my family to increase their volume for a while, or I could increase the number of mouths talking at me in my house for a while.

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After a few days in either scenario, I’m sure the return to normal would seem blessedly serene.

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I can’t risk it though,

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Not when the hush of Baja's beaches are so close by.