Taking care of four little kids under the age of 8 is no small task, even for Marilyn. In her former career, she'd always been ultra-efficient and capable, but these 4 miniature "employers" were challenging, even for her.

She'd been at the top of her game when she surprised everyone by retiring to start a family. With her first baby, she was an easy mom - lounging on the floor reading with him, playing with blocks when he got a little older. She'd made that kind of time for "number two" as well. But, somewhere along the line, and without her even realizing it, she began running her children more like a business and less like the mommy she'd started out to be.

There were schedules, deadlines, prioritized tasks...spontaneity was a thing of the past, lest chaos reign! Or so she believed. Go, go, go. They were always in the car going somewhere. Her smallest, Eve, got dragged everywhere; to Kevin's soccer practice, Mitchell's piano lesson, Kelly's dance class.

Poor little Eve. She was a fixture, back there in her car seat, babbling away as her siblings slid the minivan door open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. Everyone chattered around her. Marilyn, found it impossible to focus, with everyone talking to each other all at once. So she just let their voices wash over her. Especially Eve's, since she was too young to talk.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Marilyn had dropped off the last kid before racing to the market. What nutritious dinner would she whip up tonight?

Why did all their activities have to converge on Wednesdays? Hump day, indeed. Marilyn sighed as she lifted Eve from the car and seated her in the shopping cart. She always kissed her whenever she did this. Every time she lifted her in or out of the car seat, she kissed those silky cheeks. Those were their rare moments to quietly enjoy each other.

Eve gurgled and cooed while Marilyn distractedly responded with the occasional "Mm hmm" or a "that's right, sweetie" - offering meaningless acknowledgment as she read labels & tried to remember her chicken cacciatore recipe in her head.

As she was leaning over the mushrooms, she heard Eve say, "Apple!" It was clear as a bell. "Apple!" Eve repeated. Marilyn glanced up to see Eve pointing at something. Following her outstretched arm and finger, Marilyn turned to see... apples, on the other side of the produce department. She was stunned. When did Eve learn to say apple? Did she just say it now? Was it her first word? Apple? Babies don't say "apple" before "mama" and "dada," do they?

She turned back at Eve, who was lit up like a Big Bird night light, and hugged her. "Yes, baby! That's an apple. Here," she handed Eve a zucchini, but realized she was getting ahead of herself and put it back, "Wait, here," she handed Eve a lime. "Can you say 'lime'?"

"Lime!" Eve shouted, completely pleased with herself.

Marilyn didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she decided to do both. Had she been more tuned in, more present, she might have noticed Eve talking before now. And come to think of it, what were her other children saying? How much of their music had she missed?

That night, after pizza, they all sat on the floor and played...and talked...and Marilyn listened to every word.

Her voice, which had always been noise, was suddenly music.

The screeching, careless loudness of highschool had long faded-- she wore business suits and collared dresses now.

She no longer changed men every week-- she had been single for three years. Lonely, but proud.

She regretted the tattoo I encouraged her to get-- I regretted it too.

She'd gone to a family reunion yesterday-- back then, she didn't know who her father was.

She'd changed a lot.

But as I sat at the high counter with her, ordering calories and calories of our comfort foods...

I noticed her foot swinging still, like it used to.

And I noticed a heart inked on her ankle.

And I noticed my name in the center of it.

No, she hadn't really changed at all.

His voice, which had always been noise, was suddenly music.

One day my tuning to him just changed, at the drop of a hat.

Now I picked up on everything, the subtle movement that never stopped, a bouncing of his legs and tapping of his pen on the table. It didn't annoy me, because I had never noticed it before. He tried to act all nonchalant about sports, but the way his feet and thoughts were always moving, I knew he was somewhat athletic and poured all of his talent into one thing. Always staring out the window and never fully present, he said he'd rather be outside doing what he wanted to do than watching a presentation or working from a book. I agreed. That was before he came off as a racist jerk, making fun of my friends, calling them fake. I felt useless, so to cover it up I laughed in his face and left. His voice became another noise to me again; one that was harder to drown out than all the others, but eventually dissipated in the swelling sea of a thousand more.