I am not very good at quiet

There was nothing soft about this Monday morning. It greeted me at four am with gnawing, relentless stomach cramps that did not let up before it was time to leave my bed. When the radio woke up at 5:45 I fumbled at trying to find the stereo remote to quickly shut the noise off so the vacationing person in the bed with me would be minimally disturbed. Having been wide awake with a to do list running through my head for the last 75 minutes, I easily rose out of bed. Using my iPod as a flashlight, I grabbed some clothes out of my closet and drawers, pulled the bedroom door closed behind me, and left quiet behind.

I am not very good at quiet. Or rather it seems that when I try hardest to maintain silence, noise escapes everywhere. Of course I had to have an omelette this morning, which required going into the drawer at the bottom of the stove for a frying pan. Of course the entire house had to smell like a polish diner because I had to have onions in my omelette. Of course my chair had to squeak. Of course the empty beer cans on the floor, in the pile meant for recycling,  had to topple like bowling pins into the empty salad container. Twice.

Of course the door had to slam shut when I went out to shuffle vehicles in the driveway. Stephen said once that he will not look at a house for us without a garage. I think he'd rather clip a gorilla's toenails than have to brush snow off his vehicle in the morning. In an attempt to keep our options open, I may have said that we could consider a home with a single car garage and that I would play valet in the mornings to take Truck out and put his vehicle in, snow swept and everything. This morning I got a taste of how that would go. It's a production, let me tell you.

When I was done I sat down and wrote Stephen a good morning note. The pen didn't write smoothly so I pressed it hard to the pad of paper as I filled it words like thank you, dreamy, hope and love.

When it was time for me to go, I tip-toed into the bedroom where he was waiting for me, awake. I found his chest and put my head to his heart. I was careful to dangle my snowy shoes off the edge of the bed, saving the white duvet from winter grit.

"Hello smokey bear," he said and wrapped an arm around me.

"I don't want to go to work this morning," I said to him.

"I don't blame you."

I listened to his heart beat. I told him his ticker sounded good, and honestly I did listen to a few beats carefully before I said this. I don't know what makes me think I am an expert on "tickers" and how they should sound, but it seems that that was the most loving, eloquent sentiment I could manage in the moment. Perhaps later, to return the expression of love, he will comment on how brilliant and healthy the whites of my eyes are looking.