The Silence That Hits Like a Ton of LEGO Bricks

How I Went from Tripping Over Toys to Yearning for the Ruckus of Raising Little Ones

Back in the day, my house sounded like a perpetual carnival, tipping over with toy explosions, half-eaten snacks on every surface, and the thunderous rattle of pots and wooden spoons that my kids were convinced were the height of musical genius. I’d stagger into bed each night certain I’d never again experience a world that wasn’t in full-on chaos mode 24/7.

And then, almost overnight, that clamour vanished.

These days, my teenagers either hibernate in their rooms until noon, vanish to hang out with friends, or spend endless hours in Minecraft plotting another Ender Dragon heist. The same hallway that once shook under little feet at the crack of dawn now remains eerily silent for hours on end. Where there used to be blocks and crayons, there are now laptops and never-ending memes.

These days, I keep falling for the same trap. I’ll be minding my own business when suddenly, I hear one of my kids blurt out, “What do you think about the whole Drake vs. Kendrick thing?” My parental heart swells they want my opinion! They actually want to talk to me! I hustle over, ready to drop some wisdom (and maybe a cheeky Tupac reference), only to realize… they’re not talking to me at all. Nope. They’ve got one of those tiny, nearly invisible earbuds in and are actually deep in conversation with their Skibidi meme-infested online friends. Other times, I’ll hear them passionately debating some life-altering issue, like whether a Pop-Tart is a sandwich, and I think, Finally! I’m being included! But no, they’re just leaving a voice message for their mate. I should have known, my invite to the discourse disappeared right around the time I asked them what a "rizzler" was.

I get it, though. When you’re wrangling tiny tornadoes, it’s hard not to daydream about a moment of peace and quiet. You imagine sipping coffee while it’s still hot or enduring a car ride where no one’s screaming the “Baby Shark” theme for the 473rd time (thank God Baby Shark was not a thing in my day). It’s normal to crave five uninterrupted minutes to think a single coherent thought. Parenting small children can be all-consuming, and personal space feels like folklore at that stage.

But if I could hop in a time machine and tap my younger self on the shoulder, I’d say, “Slow down. You’ll actually long for this mess someday.” Because you will. You’ll look back fondly on your crumb-strewn floors, the giggly nonsense that somehow passed as a knock-knock joke, and the endless pleas of “Watch me do this!”, even if what they were doing was basically nothing. Heck, you’ll even miss being so tired you forgot what day it was, because that fatigue was a reminder that they needed you for everything, and you were their whole universe.

Now, my role’s shifted into more of an on-demand advisor taxi than a constant guardian. My kids can handle their own business, mostly—tie their shoes, pour their own juice, solve half their problems without me swooping in. I watch them flex their independence with a mix of pride and the occasional pang of nostalgia. There are days I’d trade just about anything for one more wild afternoon of crayons on the walls, wooden spoon drum solos, and tackling bedtime stories amidst relentless requests for water.

So if you’re knee-deep in sticky hands, scattered blocks, and a level of noise that would make a rock concert blush, take that slow breath and try to find a little joy in the mayhem. Because one day, your house will be so quiet you’ll wonder if you accidentally muted reality—and you’ll catch yourself missing every last bit of that sweet, deafening commotion. Enjoy the ride, chaos and all, because you never know how badly you’ll want it back once it’s gone.

That’s why I got a Yorkie. At least he actually wants to talk to me.