I’ve become a shusher rivalling librarians the world over. It’s not a badge I wear proudly, it’s just who I’ve become. When the baby is almost drifting off after eleven straight hours of awake time, fifty twirls of the giant wooden cube, being tossed back and forth between the bouncy chair and the stationary chair, in and out of the bjorn carrier countless times, bathed, bicycle legged, exersaucered and anything else I can possibly drum up that could keep a baby from crying, I begin my shushing routine.  When Hanna and Ellie shout at each other that someone isn’t being fair, I shush. When one of them tattles that the other was shouting and was the reason for said shushing, I shush. When they squeal with delight as they play the crossing sisters which is a game where they run in opposite directions around the family room ottoman and ultimately smash head first into one another, I shush. When they chew too loudly, I shush. I wonder if they shush in heaven when you chew? When their markers streak their construction paper too roughly, I shush. When they tear toilet paper from the roll, I shush. When the water jug makes an untimely glug, I shush. Sometimes I shush when the baby is wide awake and nowhere near ready to fall asleep because it’s become a word in my vocabulary, unfortunately, my most commonly used word. I’ve started shushing the baby, my husband, the doorbell, the phone and the alarm clock. I even glare at the intensity of the water as it gushes from the showerhead and question, why couldn’t you be a little quieter? I shush my eyelashes, I shush my typing fingers, I shush Oprah’s overly exuberant applauding audience, I shush the mute button when it’s in effect. I S-H-U-S-H!!!! With Jaws-like ferocity when the phone rings and it’s my husband calling from his downstairs home office to ask what we’re having for lunch.