When silence is not so golden

Little voices waft up the stairs and into the bathroom, where I am… Where I am. With the door ajar. Of course.

Timmy: “Those are paper scissors.”
Anna: “Yes. I am cutting paper.”
Timmy: “They are not for cutting hair.”
(One presumes this is the Voice of Experience speaking.)
.
.
silence…
.
.
.
more silence, perhaps a little shuffling
.
.
.
.

Me, from above:
“They are not for cutting hair! Put them down on the table!”

Noah: “Uh-oh.”