Too Quiet?

At dinner a few nights ago, Sophia, my first-grader, suggested we play the “quiet game.”

For those of you without kids, it’s a standard weapon for any parent who’s been in a car with their children for trips longer than 10 minutes: The person who’s quiet for the longest time wins. With Tanya out of town on business, I was not about to argue.

Ella had just had a cavity filled that afternoon and her mouth was still numb, so she couldn’t eat yet. Sophia and I attacked our tacos, while Ella read silently. I figured this particular episode would last as long as previous ones: maybe 30 seconds. But something strange happened. Sophia made it almost 10 minutes without a peep, and Ella was completely absorbed in Harry Potter. I couldn’t handle it.

“It’s too quiet!” I lamented.

“Dad lost!” Sophia yelled, a huge smile plastered on her face.

I thought I’d relish the peace and enjoy my dinner more than usual. Instead, I found myself longing for a mere sliver of the chaos that normally envelops our house at mealtime. Confused with my own desire for noise, I wondered: Should I have felt bad for wanting quiet in the first place?

Take it from a guy who writes a column based on what kids say: Listening to children talk is rewarding. They offer a flowing commentary on life from a perspective that has yet to be jaded by negative experiences or unsubstantiated bias. They are funny, genuine and truthful. I have learned a lot from them.

Nevertheless, no matter how much I love my little animals, how much I want to hear their sweet little voices, how much I adore the funny, unintentionally brilliant things they say, sometimes I just wish they would zip it.

I’m convinced that Ella, my wise yet often logorrheic 9-year-old, likes to hear herself talk. From what happened at school to what she read about in a magazine to something she saw on television, the words flow like a flash flood, with no end in sight to the deluge. And though I want to be a good dad and engage her in conversation, sometimes the endless chatter makes me crazy.

I’ve been caught a few times not paying attention when Ella or Sophia go off on one of their verbal floods. I tune out because I’m tired or worried about money or work or other typical adult concerns. Surely I can’t be expected to hang on every word at all times. There must be times when my inattention is, while admittedly rude, at least understandable.

But on that night at the table, I found myself craving conversation with my kids. Maybe it was because Tanya wasn’t home. Maybe I had had enough silence after spending the day alone in my house, writing. Whatever the case, I realized that when kids win the quiet game, the adult isn’t necessarily a winner, as well.

Silence may be golden, but I guess I don’t need that much jewelry.