Silence is Golden... and Fleeting

Someone told me recently that men don't talk as much as women. I looked at her incredulously and said, "Then you've never met any of the men to which I am related."

My dad and my brothers all have the explaining gene. They like to tell you what certain things mean and why other things are the way they are and how they came to be. Bryan and his dad have a different variation of this same gene. They like to explain how things work, be it mechanically or politically. Peter seems to have gotten both versions. Even Cooper likes to explain things to us (often with great inflection and facial expressions), even though we don't speak his language.

I like to talk too, which means someone is almost always talking at my house. I'm a tad obsessed with building the boys' brains, so I've been reading since Peter was little about how to teach him. Many of the resources that I found said I should talk to my baby often, tell him what I'm doing throughout the day. So I did. I would talk about why I was chopping fruit or why the trees were changing color. Apparently I have some of that explaining gene too.

Peter's vocabulary is a testament to the success of this method. He correctly uses words and phrases like 'otherwise', 'injury', and 'speaking of'. I will gladly admit that I am proud of his verbal prowess.

I used to think it was silly and a little sad when I would hear other parents say something like, "Can't they be quiet for one minute? Why do they have to talk all the time?!" Don't we spend a great deal of time and energy teaching our children to talk? Why would we want them to be quiet?

Yup, that's what I thought. Until recently. While we've done a fabulous job equipping Peter with the ability to express himself clearly, we have failed to give him a mute button. What I mean is, Peter is always talking. ALWAYS. Yesterday in church I had to keep reminding him that it was not his turn to speak, it was his turn to listen. As that didn't stop him at all, we spent the remainder of stake conference standing in the back of the room. He was still talking, it was just too noisy for me to hear him.

I'll admit, I was pretty frustrated when we got home. I just wanted him to be quiet. Just for a few minutes so I could gather my thoughts and calm my nerves. But then I realized something. He was being quiet. He had climbed into my big comfy chair and was just sitting there, quiet. I thought I had hurt his feelings by insisting that he stop talking so I sat next to him to see what was wrong.

I asked if he was okay. He said no. Cue mommy guilt. I asked if his feelings were hurt. He said no. Cue mommy confusion. It was then that I kissed his forehead and realized that he was burning up. I grabbed the thermometer: 102 degrees. The rest of the evening was filled with shaking from chills, glassy eyes, vomiting, a priesthood blessing, sleep, and a broken fever. He said almost nothing from about 4:30 on.

I got my wish. He stopped talking. And I missed it. Of course.

I hope he feels better today. In part because I hate to see my children sick. But also because I miss his little voice telling me the profound and funny things that often issue forth from his brain. I'll take those explaining genes over silence any day.