Clank clank clank;
screech squeal scratch.
Shrieking stainless streaks porcelain.
Metal screams; shrapnel to my soul.
I peer over at her, my child.
She's holding her owl bowl,
filled with melting ice cream.
The first bowl she received,
from a loving au pair long ago.
I wonder if it will be her last?
I pause the movie, turn my head, stare.
"Please, please, be quieter."
She shoots death eyes back at me.
"Yeah, mom." She means, No.
I resume the film;
she resumes stirring.
Clank screech scratch
Shriek squeal crash.
"Please, for the love of your mom,
eat that ice cream with less scraping!"
I am about done with this.
We return to The Hunt For Red October.
It's a pivotal scene;
the submarine is chillingly silent.
And yet, here in suburbia,
screeeeeeeeeech scratch shriek.
My hands fly for the remote.
IF YOU CANNOT BE QUIET,
THEN YOU WILL HAVE TO LEAVE!!!!!!!!!!!!
I bellow, reasonably.
My callous daughter remains unmoved.
My husbands eyes shift to mine,
and while he is smart, he says:
"How long does perimenopause last?"
Which is why, this morning,
I am up an hour before my alarm.
I am on the Interwebs.
I am searching on terms such as:
"Quiet eating spoons."
"Silicone-dipped eating utensils."
"Non-noisy eating ware."
"How to make family be quiet for seven years."
"Quiet"
"Finding Quiet"
"How to find Peace while living with Family"
"Silent spoons."
"Flights to Fiji."
===
My four-pack of silicone mini mixing spoons
is set to arrive at four a.m. tomorrow.
Pray for my family
that these stealthy spoons will fix this.
