Raise a Toast

It was the fastest summer break had ever flown by. In between the two days of the week I worked, the long sunny days had been filled with hiking adventures, day trips to the beaches of Lake Erie, endless games of neighborhood wiffle ball, and afternoons at the recreation center pool. Little league baseball games punctuated numerous evenings during the week and our family had often come home to see fireflies dotting the sky.

The summer had been layered with fun and memories and yet by the end all of the activities had grown stale for everyone in our house and I was craving routine. Even more than regularity I was in desperate need of uninterrupted time in our home by myself. It’s not that I had big dreams to lounge on the couch all day reading a book, watching several episodes of a show, or taking a nap. I was ready to make a salad for lunch with more than just greens thrown together and wander through the house picking up random markers, puzzle pieces, Legos, and socks. Following my nose wherever it wanted to take me in our home was a luxury I was ready to indulge in.

Like many summers do with kids, ours came to a close with fresh haircuts, new shoes, and lunchboxes stuffed in backpacks for the first day of school. But the start of school didn’t bring the time alone I had been craving. There were several false starts to the school year with only half of the students attending on certain days the first week, a day off for testing, as well as a holiday thrown in.

My mind was constantly shifting gears. Which days of the week could I work and drop the boys off at school on my way? Which days was my husband working from home? Which days were the boys riding the bus home from school? The irregularity brought even more mental exhaustion than the days leading up to the start of school.

Then it happened. Magical Tuesday.

There were no appointments or errands peppered on my calendar. I didn’t have a plan to clean our home or any obligation for hours. What I did have was a half-eaten piece of toast left dangling from the corner of the kitchen counter, haplessly settling there on the way to the bus stop.

As tempted as I was to throw the toast away, (or maybe eat it in all its butter and honey slathered deliciousness) I left it sitting right where it was. I passed by the toast as I scuttled loads of laundry to and from the laundry room. It remained sitting on its perch as I walked to the mailbox to pop in a birthday card, and I couldn’t help but notice the toast as I made a salad of more than just greens thrown together.

The silence I had craved for weeks closed in around me and the toast became my companion. From its place of honor it tethered me to the noise and chaos I was used to and found myself missing – the sound of sliding glass doors opening and closing, feet thundering up and down staircases, cheers for a successful jump off a homemade bike ramp built from plywood scraps and a hose box lid.

The quiet enveloped me as I wandered aimlessly in the afternoon reaching for chores I hadn’t remembered I wanted to do. As I culled through a bin of hand me down clothes for sizes that would fit our boys to try to fill the noiseless gap in my mind I wondered if I had been too hasty in wishing for silence.

Just as I threw away an armful of moldy bathtub toys from the cabinet underneath the bathroom sink, I heard the unmistakable rumble of the bus engine off in the distance. Minutes later a steady cacophony of pantry, refrigerator, and sliding glass doors opening and closing filled our home and my heart. I realized silence didn’t have to arrive in giant scoops for my mind to be clear. Regular spoonfuls of solitude might be just as refreshing to my soul as long as they were served with a side of toast.