White Noise

There is a sound machine in every bedroom of our house. And I leave them turned on and at pleasing levels, all day every day. When Lowery was first born, I had hers turned on to the “heartbeat” setting. After eight weeks, she burst out of her swaddle sack and tried to pull up the floor boards.

So I switched the setting to “downpour” and there it stayed. In our bedroom, the sound machine has always been set to “ocean.” Before London was born, our house was just a rainy day at the beach.

But as I was preparing for our second child, I had to decide which noise machine would be best for the new baby. I didn’t find frogs of the Amazon to be all that soothing, and thunder could potentially be frightening. The hoot owl was a bit too ominous and the lullaby setting would most certainly piccolo me all the way to the asylum. So I opted for a simple “white noise” machine. The package promised to create a restful environment for the baby, assured me she’d get a good night’s sleep, and guaranteed to lower the age of potty training.

On the first night home from the hospital with London, I flicked on the noise machine, filling the nursery with a gentle, whirring hum. And for the next two years and two months, it stayed on around the clock.

Until last week.

I had done the usual routine for London’s bedtime: giving her a bath; brushing her teeth; coaxing her off the stool she stands on to brush her teeth; reading her a book; singing her a bedtime song (The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme); and placing her into the crib, sleepy and happy.

Back downstairs, not a few minutes later, I heard London call out:

“Mommy Meg, what’s that noise?”

I waited a few minutes to see if she could answer her own question—the mark of parenting the second time around—but she kept calling out, demanding to know what the noise was.

I begrudgingly climbed back up the stairs and into her room, only to hear nothing. But she was standing, covering her ears, and screaming for the noise to stop. I looked around the room to try to locate the source of the sound. I ran out into the hallway and across to the bathroom to make sure the water had been turned off at the sink. But there was no noise. The air conditioner wasn’t even running. All I could hear was the peaceful white noise drifting from the miracle machine in the corner.

“Do you mean this?” I asked as I flipped the sound machine off.

London relaxed, her cupped hands dropping from the sides of her head. She nodded her head enthusiastically.

“But Lunny, this is your noise machine. You have slept with it on every night for two years.” I flicked it back on.

“No!” she yelled. “I don’t want that noise! No more noise! Turn it off!”

And with that rare outburst from my youngest, I flipped off the machine and walked out. She quickly fell asleep.

London’s ability to ask for exactly what she wants, and nothing more, is perhaps one of her most defining characteristics. Her sister Lowery is the kind who asks for everything she wants, plus a bit more in case she wants it later. And a bit of something else on the chance she changes her mind about the first thing she asked for. And then she’ll ask why you aren’t getting all those things for her right this second. Then she’ll ask why you seem so irritated.

But London uses her asks in a different way. She’s a bit more methodical, and also, a bit more forceful. When she was just over a year, we discovered London had an extreme aversion to elevators and would fall into an emotional pit of despair when we were in one. Given that it was one of very few quirks, we happily climbed several flights of stairs to keep her happy. That’s something we’d never do for her sister because Lowery would have as big an opinion about the stairwell as she would about the elevator. But then, a year later, London insisted on elevators again, ignoring all the panic-induced screaming she’d done in the past.

For the last few years I thought we always let London have what she wanted when she asked for it because she asked for so much less than Lowery. Then we theorized it was because she was the second born and this was a common birth order default. Or maybe our concessions were just sheer laziness. Later we hypothesized that it equaled out because they both got the same amount, it’s just that Lowery got less than she asked for; London got more. Finally, we agreed that we were—as usual—over thinking it, so we threw a bunch of cookies at both girls and laid down for a nap.

But no matter how much we give in or stand strong—and obsess why and when we do either—someone is always asking for something.

There is so much asking, begging, pleading, demanding, and whining that I’m not sure my children know how to speak sentences without their voices going up at the end to make it a question. On one end is Lowery, asking for everything. On the other is London, holding out for bigger asks.

Answering all of their asks has not just made me a fairly irritated person, it has also taught me the power of asking.

At home I’ve utilized the Lowery method of asking, by demanding the children do a lot of things for me. For example, I now ask that they take their dinner plates to the sink (though sometimes they land on the floor); I ask that they clean their rooms (though they technically leave them messier); I ask that they let me pee alone (although they think talking to me through the bathroom door is a good compromise). But I just keep on asking. The odds are, I’ll get something I asked for.

And I’ve embraced the London method of reverse asking, by changing my mind any damn time I please about what I want. For example, I never minded where the girls did their coloring, but then recently changed my mind, only allowing it at the kitchen table (they were coloring a little too far outside the lines); I insisted they had either Jim or me outside with them while they played, but then later both of us refused to go outside with them (that’s Oklahoma in the summer for you); I once promised them I would read any book they brought to me at any time, citing the importance of reading, but later changed my policy to exclude a few choice titles (Clifford the Big Red Dog, Green Eggs and Ham, Frog and Toad). But I kept asking for change when I got a better grip on what I wanted.

I’ve also adapted Lowery and London's approaches into my professional life.

Having just wrapped up my summer class, I’m aware I asked a lot of the students. They read through two entire books and more than 35 peer-reviewed journal articles; wrote a total of seven papers; and prepared and delivered a presentation, all in the span of three weekends. And this isn’t uncommon. That’s an acceptable work load for a graduate student (I mean don’t ask them, they are still tired and cranky) but I recognize that even though it’s acceptable, it’s asking a lot. It’s asking them to give up three weekends of their summer to come to campus and sit, in fluorescent lighting and brutally cold air conditioning, while we collectively work through all the course material. It’s asking them to be away from their families, give up activities, and miss out on sunshine. On top of all those asks, I keep making even more asks. Notably, I ask for no cell phones or laptops during class. Of all the things I ask for, that might be the biggest. Pokemon run rampant through campus.

I ask for all of this in every class I teach. Happily for me, everyone always complies. And this summer I had yet another ask, an ask I never made because I was fully aware of all the other asks I was making of them: I asked they obey my new policy--no late papers. Now, this seems like an obvious ask—get your assignments in on time. But with graduate school, it’s not always that easy. All of the students have full time jobs at which they have a great amount of responsibility. Many are married, some have kids. A handful are commuting long distances just to attend class. So for those reasons, my policy has always been that late papers will be accepted (often for points deducted) on a case-by-case, better-have-a-damn-good-excuse basis.

But this summer, I decided I wasn’t going to allow late assignments for the first time in nearly 10 years of teaching. As I was drafting up the syllabus in late spring, I realized how much I was looking forward to the summer break. The more time I spent grading, the less time I would be able to spend doing regular summer activities in Oklahoma, like taking pictures of the thermometer on my dashboard. Delayed assignment submissions always prolong my ability to finish up grading, or at least draws it out into times I’d rather be doing anything else.

Surprisingly, not a single student complained about my new ask. Even those who have taken four or five courses with me and had benefited from the occasional extended deadline. I wasn’t exactly expecting a coup. But I was expecting more push back. Yet the class went as smoothly as ever and every assignment was turned in on time. By every single student. And aside from the group collectively trying to push back deadlines in jest, no one privately attempted to ask for an extension.

I guess my hesitation in making the ask was only because I was worried I had asked for too much already, and that it was too late to make an ask that was such a departure from what I’ve always accepted.

But Lowery assured me that was ridiculous, reminding me I can ask for every damn thing I want and then some, for good measure. And London reiterated how perfectly acceptable it is to change my mind and make asks that accommodate.

Despite it all, asking for what I really want--what I really need--is difficult. Maybe because there is potential to not get what it is I want. But then I remember, that never stops Lowery. She just keeps on asking and asking and asking. Even when I ask her to stop asking. And I think of London, who realigns her asks when her needs change. The right time to ask for more, or to ask for a change, is the exact moment I feel I need it.

Which means no matter how much I begged for—and have grown accustomed to—the noise, it’s ok to ask for the sound of silence.