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It was a Saturday morning a couple of years ago when my youngest was still five. A delightful five-year-old, if ever there was one.

She came bouncing into my room to wake me and remind me that it was time for ballet, time for ballet, time for ballet.

I was not a morning person. Emphatically, I was not a morning person.

Not. Not. Not. Not. Not.

Saturday. Morning.

Saturday morning.

SaturdayMorning.

saturdaymorningsaturdaymorningsaturdaymorning…

Those two words put together, side by side, could bring a slow-stretching smile over my face as I daydreamed of no alarms, no work to rush to, no high heels and pantyhose, no rushing four kids’ breakfasts, four kids’ lunches, and four kids’ buses or rides to school to coordinate.

Such a lovely thought.

The daydream ended there.

That year, the dance studio she belonged to decided that the children in her age group would begin at 8:45.

8:45 on a Saturday morning.

Rude.

That was breathe-deep, stretch-slowly, oh-that-lazy-lingering-stretch-feels-ooooooooh-soooooo-good-after-a-long-indulgent-sleep-in-morning time.

That was smile-just-because-it-is-Saturday-morning time.

That was linger-in-bed-until-dying-for-coffee time.

A basic human need.

Except, of course, for early morning people who are of the thought that people like me are clueless to the endless beauty of waking up way before the crack of dawn to start the day early, breathing the cool, crisp morning air, and having most of what you need to accomplish done before 8:00 in the morning.

Super-early alarm-bell people leave me with as much understanding as a two-year-old in front of an advanced algebra board, and I have done quite nicely in life without ever needing to enjoy an early morning.

Nor advanced algebra

Well, this Saturday morning was none of that

When my little one pranced her way into my room and I smiled at her effervescence, I was ready for one of the above lingering, lazy stretches.

Until I looked at the clock.

Oh my gosh!!!

It was 8:25!!!

Omg! I kicked into rush-rush-rush mode. Considering the drive to the studio was twenty minutes long, we were already late.

Rush, rush, rush. I threw on some sweats and flipped my hair up fast into a messy-ish ponytail. I rush, rush, rushed her into her ballet outfit and her hair into a fast, doorknob bun.

I quickly grabbed her some fruit and granola and had her in the car in record time.

Ten minutes.

Woo hoo!

I was out of breath, slightly frazzled, proud of my efficiency, and felt a headache brewing.

Damn. I did not have time to make coffee.

I hated not having coffee.

I have always been “one of those people.” I have always had to have coffee every morning. Not just for the caffeine. There was the ritual. The smell of it brewing was heavenly. The first sip of roasted deliciousness, and then the “ahhhhh…” that followed every first sip.

Rush, rush, rush, into the car we went.

Proud of myself but grumpy, I had left without coffee.

Not good.

So not good.

I usually woke up a little bit before my children, as I was one of those people who needed absolute silence around me and no human interaction until well after my first cup of coffee, preferably after my second.

I liked to pretend that I could actually have a “quiet time” in the morning.

In the car, on our way, grumpy but proud to have her only ten minutes late, my little one, in her joyful, bubbly little voice, asked me, “Mommy… can I ask you something?”

I could not have a discussion now, no matter how sweet and lovely her voice was.

I was fuzzy, foggy, and feeling frazzled.

I took a breath and said, “Sweetheart, if you could ask me on our ride home, that would be much better. Mommy has not had coffee yet, and I am a little bit grumpy and need some quiet time this morning. We can talk alllll the way home. Okay?”

“Fine, Mommy. But can I just ask you something?”

I felt guilty for it, but I was irritable and did not want to be, which made me more irritated —with myself.

I took a deep breath.

I prayed for patience.

Oh, my little love. She was so lovely.

I smiled.

She deserved my best. And I meant it. But that damn irritability stood in the way of what I wanted as opposed to how I was tempted to respond.

Honestly, the smile was more a tight I-am-trying-to-smile smile, but I genuinely tried.

“Okay, my little one. But then we are going to be quiet for a while. Okay?”

“But Mommy… when you were five, did you know how to be quiet for a whole ride to ballet?”

“Well… I did not have ballet classes, sweetheart. But I guess I was quiet if I needed to be.”

I was trying hard. I made sure to give her a sweeter smile now.

I sighed with relief.

She asked her question.

I answered.

Done.

“So now, my angel, we can be a little quiet for the next little while. How about, instead, we listen to music and sing our favourite songs, and Mommy won’t be grumpy?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Silence.

Oh.

I did not expect that.

Aaaaaah.

My lips relaxed into a little smile as I allowed the joy of only the songs to wrap their lovely blanket around us.

Me, the music, and…

“But Mommy… how did you know how to be quiet when you were five years old? What did you do with all the words that you had to say?”

Oh dear.

I was feeling less like a good mother and more like a guilty villain.

I took a deep breath.

I tried, but failed, and ended up giving a fake, tight smile.

“Well, sweetheart, think of it like this. You don’t actually have to say all of the things your head thinks. You can just think them and then remember to say them later.”

One second of silence.

Two seconds of silence.

I was hopeful.

Guilty, as I did not want to bruise her feelings, but hopeful.

“But, but Mommy, I am not good at remembering words to remember, and I just have to talk them. I don’t know how to not say them.”

Now this was true.

And I heard a hint of distress in her voice.

This child had somehow gotten the imaginative little idea, somewhere along her way, that silence meant somebody better speak quickly to fill it.

Silence meant someone was forgetting to talk.

Specifically her.

Silence meant that she was failing at filling the void of conversation with the incessant little chattering that had come to be her norm. She spent her days fluttering from one little activity to the next, chatting away to either me, Papou, the dog, or, if all else failed, herself.

Honestly.

Aww, little angel.

Wherever I was in the house, if she was not stuck to me like my little puppy that was always stuck to her, I could hear her sweet little voice sing-songing away.

There were benefits to this. It meant I never worried about how she was feeling about any particular situation. I always knew where she was, what she was doing, and who she was doing it with. To a mom of four, that was kind of a strange relief.

Anyone in her world, whether they wanted to or not, knew exactly what she was thinking. It was like a constant stream of conversation, thinking, opinions, and ideas coming from her pretty little mouth. Occasional tinkling laughter, occasional correction to the dog, questions galore, and never a breath in between.

“Well, sweetheart… just try to practice it for school. Try to save your ideas and questions like a little list of special things for us to talk about on the ride home. I know that you like to talk. A lot. But this is just a good time to maybe practice not talking.”

Silence.

One thousand one.

Two thousand two.

Three thou –

“But, but Mommy…”

Now her voice was actually quaking.

Oh no! I felt like such a bad mother. I was making her cry without even using a firm tone of voice. Oh my gosh, I felt horrible!

“But, but Mommy… Mommy… I, I just don’t know how to keep the words inside. How did you learn to be quiet, Mommy? When I go to school and the teacher tells us to be quiet, she is talking or telling me a story, so it isn’t hard. And we get in trouble if we talk when we are not supposed to. But you aren’t talking, and I want to talk to you, and I don’t know how to keep the words inside. Mommy… Mommy… maybe you could talk, and then I could listen, and then I won’t talk.”

“Mommy… when you were five, was it easy for you to be quiet? Did you like to talk to your mommy too? Did your mommy teach you how to be quiet? Who did you talk to when you were supposed to be quiet? Mommy?”

I didn’t talk.

I didn’t respond.

But I sat in the driver’s seat and listened.

And I smiled.

A real smile, with love for her spreading warmly throughout me.

Her beautiful little voice filled every second.

The whole twenty minutes, with my lack of caffeine and a lovely headache that somehow didn’t matter anymore.

Twenty minutes of talking about not talking.

I started to giggle as I found it funny and rather incredible that a five-year-old could talk about not talking without a break for twenty minutes.

I looked back at her in her car seat.

I smiled.

Headache, shmeadache.

It was only twenty minutes.

Joy had taken over.

As I sit here this morning, still early in the day two entire years later, I can hear her. She is in her room colouring, and I am positive she is making some colourful little masterpiece that will be hand-delivered to me within the hour.

Our room doors are both ajar.

She is chattering away, even with the TV on, asking herself whether the blue or the green will look better with the pink. And should she use the smelly markers or the thin ones? Oh, she made a mistake. That’s okay. She is changing it to another colour. Mommy is going to like it better.

Little footsteps.

Here she is.

Hand-delivered treasure.

A beautiful picture with three colourful flowers.

I am smiling.

What a happy little picture.

Like happy little her.

Time to stop writing about her.

She has to tell me something.

It’s okay, though.

I have already had my coffee.

She makes me smile.