The Sound of Silence

There’s a sound that every parent of young children dreads more than crying, tantrums, or even the 47th request for a snack; the sound of silence.

Silence is sneaky. It tiptoes in and settles like a warm blanket, lulling you into a false sense of calm. For a brief moment, you think everything is fine, maybe even peaceful. You let your guard down. You let your concentration focus in on the pesky work you’ve been trying to get done. You breathe. And that’s when it happens. The chaos unleashes itself in all its crayon-covered, toilet-paper-wrapped glory. Hopefully mostly funny, without having to do too huge a cleanup.

The other day I lost focus as I was writing. My boys were playing in the next room, laughing and running around. A good mood, on a pleasant morning. Then… quiet. I didn’t realize at first because I was immersed in my work. Not nap time or tired-of-playing quiet. Just too quiet.

The slow scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor broke the hypnotizing lack of sound.

I peeked my head around the corner and there was my oldest, stealthily scooting a chair toward the bathroom. His younger brother stood nearby, already half-mummified in toilet paper. They both froze when they saw me, classic wide eyes, mouths in a devilish grin. Guilty. Busted.

Honestly? I couldn’t even be mad. It was just toilet paper. It’s not like they’d painted the walls or microwaved a crayon. Sure, it was a mess, but it was also fun. They were laughing. They were playing. They were… technically being creative?

It was harmless. Funny, even. A minor mess and a major memory.

But then there’s the other kind of quiet. The kind that makes your heart drop.

Like the time I caught them trying to get into the medicine cabinet—specifically, their gummy vitamins. They hadn’t gotten in (thankfully), but they were definitely working on it. I’d already had handle locks, but that didn’t stop them from testing every possible weakness. Like tiny, determined velociraptors, they were probing for a way in, jiggling, climbing, inspecting. Just waiting for the moment one of us forgot to latch something properly. That was the moment I realized: even with safety measures in place, curiosity doesn’t quit.

That moment reminded me that the line between harmless fun and real danger can appear fast. One moment it’s giggles and games, the next it’s a panic and a pediatrics visit. You adapt quickly as a parent because you have to. You can’t plan for everything, but you learn to expect the unexpected. The nice side is that humans have been raising humans for about as long as there have been… well… humans! We tend to pass knowledge down from one generation to the next. Enhancing the next members in our line to be able to tackle tricky situations better. It’s not perfect but it helps.

Parenting small children is like trying to keep plates spinning. You get one going well, and another one starts to tumble. It’s truly never ending, a constant, and exhausting job is somehow, still filled with joy.

Part of that joy has been growing into the next stage of my life. I love how much my kids are shaping me. I’m helping them grow into the people they’re meant to be, and they’re helping me grow into someone I never imagined I could become. A better version of myself—more patient, more present, more aware.

I hope that someday, when they’re older, they’ll look back and see a parent who didn’t always get it right, but who tried. Someone who was there, who cleaned up the toilet paper and locked the cabinets and showed up every day, one unpredictable moment at a time.

So yes, silence will always be suspicious. I’ll always peek around the corner when things get too quiet. But even in the wild moments—even in the mess—I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Because this is the good stuff.

One roll of toilet paper at a time,
K