When the kids are here at night there is too much to do to stop. Homework, making dinner, eating and cleaning it, cleaning them, packing lunches, repacking when they decide they don’t like that snack anymore (usually after I’ve been to Costco and gotten a jumbo pack), getting them ready for bed, getting me ready for bed, reading the latest story, answering the thoughtful and complex questions they seem to have just before bedtime, getting the water, getting more water… by the time I actually put my head to the pillow, I’m the kind of tired that no work day could cause. I’m a deep sleeper so when they climb in with me, I rarely notice. When they wake me up to tell me about a bad dream, I mumble and mutter them away from scared and back to sleep. When they need an extra cuddle, I curl them up in that spot where they fit perfectly. And when they dream that they are in the boxing ring with Muhammad Ali and sucker punch me in the jaw, I roll over and repeat how much I love them no matter how many stars I see.
But when the kids aren’t here, I miss the rush and busy they cause. The silence is deafening. I stand in the kitchen to eat dinner over the sink and wish for the mess they leave behind. I come up with questions they would probably ask and Google the answers if I don’t know it. My tiny house seems big and empty with no personality. The pillow I cuddle up to doesn’t fit right in their spot and even though it’s soft, I miss the flinging arms that cause the stars.
So, basically, I am glutton for punishment and need to get a hobby. Candle making? Duct tape art? Missing sock searches? Stay tuned…