I have three young children, who are all wonderful, let me hastily start by saying that. They are wonderful, wonderful little gits.  I also have a wonderful wife, who is wonderful. Everything is wonderful. Except for one minor/major issue. They are all so goddamn NOISY.

Oh my DAYS they make SO much NOISE.

Non-stop noise

Every waking minute of my home life is an auditory cacophony. A shocking, boisterous disharmony. So much so, I spend my life in a permanent wince. I exist solely as a never ending facial grimace.  My stress shoulders are so close to my ears (trying to cover them I suspect) I appear all circus-freaky and neckless.

I have sound sensitivities of this you can be sure. It’s an Aspie thing. I have very good hearing and can hear noises that others appear not to hear – possibly because they are all such clash-bang-shouty noisy feckers.

To be honest, some unexpected noises I feel first. I sort of sense them inside, before the mechanics of my brain kick in. Then once I cognitively register the sound, I run through a mental list, ticking the noise off against all possible sound sources that make sense, until I marry the two.  Then I relax.

Sometimes I go off and double-check that I’m right and did in fact correctly identify the noise. Then I feel all Sherlock Holmesy for a bit.

However in general every sound in my house could be heard by the stone deaf, because my family are set to number 11.

(I hope someone gets that)

Every unexpected bang and clatter takes at least a year off my life.  My wife loading the cutlery drawer for example greys my hair in actual real time. I’m like a speeded up nature film, greying by the second and narrated by David Attenborough, as she makes the noise equivalent of lobbing the spoons into the drawer from the bottom of the garden.

I have offered on many occasions to demonstrate how to load the cutlery drawer, and indeed the dishwasher, in such a manner as to not receive an ASBO from the neighbours, but on each occasion am chased from the kitchen with a bread knife and the threat of enuchhood. You just can’t help some people….

And so I am forced to maintain my wince

Wifey tells me I even wince whilst sleeping, yet fails to attribute my unconscious grimace to her nose breathing regime. She’s a wonderful woman, who has berthed my three off-spring admirably, but this doesn’t negate the fact that it’s like sleeping next to a vacuum wearing a nightie.

I did try to attach one of those anti nose-breathing strips to her the other night whilst she slept, but she awoke as I was leaning over her and mistook my actions for amour. Subsequently I was forced to make love to her to disguise my actual intentions and awoke the following morning with a nose strip stuck to my arse cheek.

Epic fail.

My youngest child is such a calamitous noise maker, we are seriously considering changing his first name to ‘Thuggery’, as I am led to believe his actions show up on the Richter scale. My other two children, having taken to communicating solely through screaming and punching, are on track to wear out their vocal chords by the year 2019 and have the worst cases of ‘dead-arm’ known to medical science.

Seriously, there is no escaping the cacophony.  And believe me I try…..

Avoiding the noise

I’ve tried wearing the wax earplugs (that I wear whilst sleeping with Henry) during the day in a bid to abate the noise, but alas to no avail. They work insomuch that they do-dull-the-din to an acceptable level; however because they fit so snugly and are practically invisible to the naked eye, my children fail to see them and thus keep talking to me, forcing me to pull them out to find out what they are yammering on about.

Seriously, I have inserted, removed and reinserted my wax ear plugs with such frequency and furious verve, due to my selfish children wanting to constantly jibber-jabber to their discreetly muffled father, that I’ve chaffed my earholes. I’ve rendered them distinctly pink. My auditory canals look like two tiny tunnels of love.

This in itself is annoying as without earplugs, I’m like the proverbial chugger, ignored completely and given a wide berth in the quest for all things mummy.

Yet earplug up and suddenly I’m kiddy catnip. I’m Mr Cocking Tumble. Two waxy lumps hidden in my head and suddenly my children are chitter-chatter junkies desperate for a fix of daddy gabble.

But without my two waxy pieces of hidden sanity, I’m at the mercy of such a constant barrage of noise that I fear for my life.

What to do…….What……to…….do.

Heavy duty noise.



I’ve been road testing these bad boys for a few months now. They are very effective and quieten my family to a level that does not require I bludgeon myself to death – which is nice. In addition, they are slightly more visible to the naked eye, meaning that I am interacted with less by the children – double trouble.

However the injustice is overwhelming. Consider it thusly. Just to have the pleasure of spending time in the house that I work tirelessly to pay for, I am forced to wander from room-to-room looking like a furious Mickey Mouse looky-likey.

No noise, but oh the shame

I mean LOOK AT THEM.  They are HUGE.  No word of a lie, I struggle to move around the house without bashing into things.  Try opening cupboards, or bending down to put your underpants on with a yard of ear defender protruding East and West over your shoulders.  I’m living in a perpetual game of It’s a Knockout, but without the sex pest commentary.  Whenever I walk the entire length of hallway, I feel like an aeroplane coming into land.

Try waking through a doorway and turning sideways to let a person coming in the opposite direction through, whilst wearing a pair of the largest ear defenders known to man.


You either bash your own head into the door frame like a nut job or you earbutt the poor person you were attempting to give way to. Luckily the world is a silent movie to you now, so you are unable to hear the other person call you a preposterous c*nt, as they stagger off to First Aid mildly concussed.

You can just toddle off in your own little world and knock some books of the shelf.

Even worse,  try this.

Try forgetting you have on your monster muffs and on seeing the Amazon man park up outside your house, answering the front door to him whilst wearing them. Yeah try that.

Try standing on your doorstep in resplendent view of the whole wide world, whilst the Amazon man retrieves your parcel from the back of his van and walks down the pathway towards you, with what you consider to be a mixture of slightly afraid and mildly amused upon his face. Try ticking off THAT facial expression against your mental barometer of  – I wonder precisely what this person thinks of me?

No noise and shame apex

Then try this. Seriously try it. Try starting a conversation with the Amazon man and when you realise you can’t hear him, but can hear yourself REALLY loudly in your forehead, try whipping off your gargantuan ear orbs, with the all the shameful gusto of a man caught masturbating, and feeling utterly nobtard sheepish, as you hold your Mickey Mouse ears between your knobbly knees and sign for your wife’s parcel.

But why stop there?

When nothing can possibly get any worse and you are at the very precipice of your social suicide,  try telling the Amazon man, in as high a voice as is humanly possible, that you’ve just been operating a noisy machine.


Just do it. Don’t back down now. I mean unnaturally high.  I’m talking 7-year old birthday girl high.


As you sign your scribbled name on his little computer thingy, falsetto mumble such a pathetic and unbelievable excuse that when you hear your own words outloud, your bum-hole tightens SO tightly with shame, you fear your bottom may reverse the space-time continuum.

That your clenching anus will actually tear a hole in the universe. An A-hole.

Stand there in your shorts, t-shirt and bare feet, whilst holding the largest pair of cocking ear defenders that money can buy betwixt your knees and try to convince the Amazon delivery man that you are in fact not a complete douche nozzle, but rather he has just interrupted you operating invisible heavy machinery in the privacy of your own living room, and that you are SO safety conscious, you have protected your ears against the sounds of a possible nuclear explosion, whilst tottering around in your bare feet and favourite summer outfit.


I bet he won’t believe you.  He’ll just say nothing and let the sound of your ineptitude ring out. The shitbag.

Deal with it.

Close your door quietly and humbly resign yourself to the fact that whilst you subscribe to the many worlds theory, which posits an infinite number of yous, in an infinite number of universes, in none of them are you NOT a massive nobhead wearing Mickey Mouse ear muffs, who is unable to sign for a parcel in a socially appropriate manner.

Whatever the holy fudge that is.

P.S.  My wife insists that I clarify that absolutely no love-making took place for the writing of this blog.

© 2016 Man in His Pyjamas. All rights reserved.

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