I still remember stepping into my first high school pep rally as a freshman. The energy was palpable—an exhilarating cacophony of enthusiastic chants and fight songs reverberated throughout the gym, with students stomping the bleachers in unison. It was electrifying!
The same rush hit me when I first entered a teen night at a dance club (I still can’t believe my mom let me go; my dad called it a “meat market”). I’ll never forget the bass thumping through the walls as I stood in line, unable to contain my excitement, dancing even before I hit the dance floor.
In college, I was a regular at house parties and nightclubs. The more people, the better—the louder, the more alive it felt. I cranked up the music in the car, relished the roar of roller coasters, and thrived on the chaos of events like Mardi Gras. Noise was synonymous with life; it signaled that something thrilling was happening.
Then I got married and welcomed my first child. Suddenly, silence became a luxury. That precious calm was so rare that it felt like gold. I often found myself pacing the halls with my wailing baby, desperately wishing for just a few moments of tranquility.
We lived on a busy street (rookie homeowner mistake—don’t do it!), and just as we welcomed our son, Lucas, construction began to widen the road outside our home. For his entire first year, we were bombarded by the relentless noise of machinery right at our doorstep. Our high-strung dog barked at anything that moved, and our neighbors decided to take this opportunity to add a garage, hammering away at 8 a.m. every morning—even on weekends.
Adding to the chaos, Lucas himself was quite vocal. I remember lying next to him as he cried, my own sobs echoing the frustration of our noisy life. All I longed for was a moment of peace.
Now, with two kids and a constant parade of neighborhood friends running through our yard, the volume in our home is always turned up. My husband, bless him, hasn’t seemed to notice the shift in our home’s audio landscape. On weekends, he blasts the news in the morning and cranks up the music throughout the day. He loves UB40, what can I say?
Honestly, I’ve hit my limit with the noise. It’s exhausting to shout over the blaring TV or music just to have a conversation. My husband, partially deaf in one ear, often misses what I say anyway, which only adds to the frustration.
I try to calmly express my feelings about the noise, but I fear he sees me as bossy. The noise level can reach a point where I feel a surge of irritation that’s hard to shake off. Sometimes, I sneak away to the bathroom under the pretense of needing some “me time” just to escape the din.
If you had told my twenty-year-old self that I’d one day be irritated by loud music, I would have laughed it off. Who knew I’d end up in a world where I had little control over the noise around me?
It’s fascinating how something once taken for granted can become a coveted treasure. After having kids, my infatuation with noise faded, much like my love for flashy shoes and glittery lashes. Or maybe I’ve just matured—who knows?
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In summary, my relationship with noise has transformed dramatically since becoming a parent. What was once an exhilarating part of life has become a source of stress and exhaustion. This shift has opened my eyes to the beauty of quiet moments, making them all the more cherished.