25 Sep Drowning In A Sea of Talkers
Martha Wegner is often a reluctant audience to her family of extroverts.
A Constant Stream of Stories
“Mum, are you listening to me?” I turn around once again to face my youngest child. “Of course I’m listening to you. Aren’t I always listening to you?” Undaunted by the less-than-positive tone of my voice, my son proceeds to tell me his long story about… let’s see, was it Pokémon, a monster, or perhaps the bully at preschool? Maybe it was about a dream he had, what he wants to be when he grows up, or perhaps a really long story about something he did when he was a little boy.
If he pauses long enough to take a breath, his sister barges in with one of her tales. Perhaps it’s about softball, her anxiety about school, or the entire plot of the latest book she just finished. No matter, I just nod my head and say, “Uh-huh”. They don’t need much more.
I do have to assign them places in the listening line: “OK, now I need to listen to what David has been trying to say to me. Oh – hold on, David, Christine is crying because I cut her off.” You get the not-so-pretty picture. I swear I’m going to get one of those swivel armchairs installed in the passenger seat of our next car; anything to save my neck from a permanent crick caused by constantly turning to hear the next discourse.
An Introvert in an Extrovert Household
I took a test called the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator at work a couple of years ago. Not too surprisingly, on the introvert-extrovert scale, I was nearly off the scale for introversion. What that means is that I get my energy from silence. Nothing brings tears of joy to my eyes faster than the thought of being alone in the house with a bubble bath and a good book.
My mother tells me that when I was a child, she could just put me on the floor and I would play by myself. I have visions of her running around after my two very active older sisters while I contentedly strung beads and listened to music. I imagine she had to remind herself to put me to bed. So when I had children, I expected the same. But after my daughter was born, it became clear that I was wrong.
When Quiet Kids Don’t Arrive
Christine needed to tell me everything and show me everything, and I do mean everything: “Yes, that is so wonderful,” even if I have seen that dance step 200 times. Still, I harboured hopes for her brother, who came along four years later. David and I were going to be the quiet ones. No such luck. From the time he was born, he has had to have an audience for everything he experiences. I am not kidding when I say I have seen “how high he can jump” nearly every day since he turned three. I have heard every dream he has had. I have seen every letter he has written.
When, out of sheer exhaustion, I say to my children, “Go and play by yourselves!” they give me a look of such utter amazement that I might as well be telling them to go and speak Russian to the neighbours.
Drained by My Talkative Tribe
Here’s the real rub. I think extroverts are out to get us introverts. I have evidence of it in my family. It’s clear that they do not get their energy from each other. They get it from me. Every day, they drain me dry.
My children never demand that their dad watch or comment or laugh. No, it’s got to be mum. She is the best audience. And their dad (also an extrovert) is a co-conspirator. He’ll wait if he has to. He’ll wait until the kids are in bed and I have finally picked up that blessed book for my 15 minutes of silence. Then he attacks. “You won’t believe what happened at work today.” I sigh and put down my book. And I nod, and say “Oh”, and I smile or laugh or scowl at the appropriate moments. Then it’s time for bed. I’ve got to rest up if I’m going to be a good audience tomorrow.
