With three girls in the house, I have moments when I can't get a word in edgewise. Scratch that. I have moments when I can't get a thought in edgewise, much less a word, because there would need to be a break in the continual stream of randomly-patched together monologues in order for me to gather those thoughts.
Eight years ago I remember looking into the face of my darling first daughter, then a newborn, and wondering what her voice would sound like. Now, I wonder what silence would sound like because little voices provide a soundtrack to my daily existence, quite similar to continually-streamed elevator music, except that I actually have to pay attention to what they're saying.
Reese's voice occasionally lilts upward even as she speaks declarative sentences. Brooke's voice surprises listeners with its husky, gravely quality, as if she's a five-year-old Lauren Bacall. Kerrington's voice reaches the opposite spectrum, with an adorably high pitch that, for whatever reason, reminds me of a chipmunk.
I love their voices.
I love that my daughters talk to me regularly, that they tell me about their days, that they voice their fleeting fancies, their frustrations, and their random observations.
Some moments I long for silence, but mostly, I want to keep them talking: through toddlerhood, through the tween years, through teenage angst and beyond.
They talk, and talk, and talk. So I ask, and comment, and listen. And, I remind myself -- especially when I'm longing for some quiet -- that continual talk from my children is vastly preferable to the alternative.
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