The Volume of Silence

I think about the mornings I wake up and the kids are already fighting over whether to watch SpongeBob or Scooby Doo. I think about their afternoon games of 'Scream' where they, literally, try to out scream the other as they run back and forth around the hallway and living room. I think about David's full throttle, unabashed laughter as his sister makes silly faces at him and hers in return as he attempts to mimic her.
The sounds of my daily life. Sometimes it makes me crazy and I find myself wishing for a moment of peace. Sometimes it fills that leftover spot I missed from my own childhood. Mostly it just bleeds from one day into the next; an unalterable course of being. A simply matter of fact.
Now the house is quiet and I am unnerved by it.
Joe took the kids to a friend's house. I am supposed to be using this time to finish up some projects that never quite seem to get done; projects often interrupted by the noise of daily life.
Instead, it feels too hollow.
The radio can't quite drown out the absence of their laughter.
So I watch the clock and hope that they'll return soon.
I find it a little funny, but not in the ha-ha sort of way, that the very thing I've found myself wishing for is making me sad. A little peace. A moment to myself. I seem to have more of that with them here, not occupying my thoughts but simply here. Without the regular hum of their voices, the motion of their play, I feel off-balance.
I've grown accustomed to chaos and without it I am out of place.

What does that say about me?