Pounding Our Feet Softly
She tells us that we sound like a herd of cattle running up and down the stairs.
She tell us to listen to our feet, to pay attention to the clamor it creates.
But that never crosses our minds as we run and jump and fly like birds up and down the stairs. We never consider that the pounding of our soles against the steps could possibly be like a pack of wild animals tearing through the house. Why should we consider it? After all, we are only children, not cows. Let the cows worry about sounding like cattle.
And certainly we sound nothing like the horses we call dogs. They romp and play like gazelle, dancing the two-step. And we? We are just children. Our greatest feat is whether or not we can come home every day without homework, with dry pants, and getting along well with the other children. Our greatest concern is whether or not the other one of us is getting special treatment or winning more of their love.
It’s the same line, over and over, “Listen to your feet, Children.” I listen. She listens. We are not stalking cats, for heaven’s sake. We are children. We race to see who can finish dinner first. Not to see who can be most silent and calculated. Let the cheetah in the painting on the wall worry about silence. Not us, we are competitors, leaping for gold medals and wiping out the enemies.
Why can’t she understand?
We hang on monkey bars for fun. We are discovering new and exotic noises we can make with our lips. Why should we listen to our feet when there are so many other, more important sounds to which we pay our attention? Like the steady gurgle of the fish tank that reminds us to feed them. Or the story-telling rumble of the old fashioned Chevy truck as it pulls into the neighbor’s drive. Or the purring song of the kitten as he kneads our blankets and bites our toes after the lights go out. Or the melody that stays stuck in our heads as we hum the ABC song while brushing our teeth to make sure those teeth get clean enough every night. These are the things to which we should listen. Not our feet.
She tells us there is a sleeping monster who lives beneath the stairs. I’m not sure it’s true, but I think it could be. And so what if the sleeping monster awakes at my elephant steps? He’s not yet been grumbly enough with us to show himself to us! Perhaps the sleeping monster likes our tumbling sounds. Perhaps the beat of our feet reminds him of the thumping of his mother’s heart while he laid dormant within her belly. Did she never consider it? I don’t think she has. Nor I, for that matter. But it makes the story more interesting when I tell it that way, that’s for sure.
She threatens us with an inch of our life. “Be quiet or you’ll wake your father!” We stop, feign fear for her account, and look at each other with smiling eyes when she turns away. Our father should wake up already. He is grumpy when he first awakes, but his feet are likely just as clumpy as our own. Or at least we imagine this to be true, lest we heed her warnings.
We are only children after all. We fear nothing of the threats. Why should we? We are busy discovering the world, and she? She is missing it; for all she cares about is the sound of our heels, strumming the steps as we dance out the music in our hearts.
