Eventually, if you live in the south long enough, you’ll hear an elderly person say, “Now you’re payin’ for your raisin’.”

Basically this means that…

1. Your kid decided to take all his clothes off and jump into the fountain at the mall. You desperately try to pull him out, and somehow when the battle ends a crowd has gathered and you have splashed water everywhere and you look like you pissed your pants.

2. Your teenage daughter sneaks out her bedroom window and runs off with a guy covered in tattoos named Billy Jack or Hammer. He also drives a lifted truck with a pair of metal balls hanging from the boat hitch. He may or may not be employed.

3. Your children band together in an effort to gas light you in every aspect of your life. Like when they take apart the dvd player to see how it works, and then say with wide unblinking eyes, in unison like lawyer-ed up children of the corn, “We don’t know what happened, mommy.”

The reason that you’re paying is because way back in the yellowed pages of history… you too did these things to your own parents.

Which is why when my sweet Jane talks ninety-miles an hour, without drawing breath, for seconds and minutes and hours at a time, I know I can’t say a word. I cannot call my mother to complain. I cannot say anything. Because I’ve heard the stories of my talking binges. I’ve heard my mother say, “You talked so much and so long, like a little squirrel who sucked helium, that I would sort of drift away into an out of body experience.”

I now fully understand this.

Last night it was dark and raining. We were late getting home, and traffic was stacked up on the freeway. Jane was talking a blue streak from the back seat. I nodded and responded to a litany of topics.

Snakes.

Green snakes.

Her teacher telling her not to toot on the floor so much.

Elliott having to apologize for tooting on the floor so much.

Elephants.

Maleficent’s wings.

Princess glitter bubbles.

My head was pounding and the car behind us came dangerously close to rear ending us. I was capped out on conversation.

I said, “Jane, let’s play the quiet game.”

Two seconds passed and she whisper yelled from the backseat, “I do not like this game. Hey, do you know that I have yellow hair?!”

I adore my little talker. It thrills my heart that she has the communication skills of a kindergartner.

But the fact remains, sometimes, I like quiet.

And the fact remains that she, does not, in fact, like the quiet game.