14. When the House Was Quiet, I Missed the Noise

One night, everyone was asleep.
No toys beeping, no bottles clinking in the sink, no little voices calling out for “one more hug.” Just silence.

I thought I’d love it—finally, peace. But standing there in the living room, the stillness felt… hollow.

Because the thing is, I’ve gotten used to the chaos. I’ve built my days around the rhythms of little feet and toy explosions and baby babble. The noise, as overwhelming as it can be, is also life. It’s proof of the love in this house. It’s presence and purpose and motion.

And that quiet? It reminded me that this season—this wild, loud, beautiful season—won’t last forever.

I’ll miss the thump of tiny feet coming down the hall. I’ll miss the endless loop of the same bedtime song. I’ll even miss the absurdly loud sound of plastic blocks being dumped out for the hundredth time.

So I sat there that night and let the quiet wash over me—not with sadness, but with gratitude. Because the noise will come back in the morning, and I’ll be here to soak it in. Again and again.

And maybe I’ll miss the silence a little less.