Paul is on a camp out with the big kids and it’s just Dean, Jane and I for the next two days.
It’s so quiet. Dean is delightful. No fighting, no tears, no power struggles…is this my house?
Years ago, I took the kids on a trip to grandma’s house while Paul worked and worked around the clock at home. When we returned, the house was immaculate. When I asked Paul why the house was so spiffy, he replied,
“It was easy. I cleaned it up right after you left and it has stayed clean all week. You guys are the mess makers around here. Not me!”
Fair enough, but he sure did miss his little mess makers. All the hooping and hollering and general craziness made our house feel like a home. Without it, it felt like a museum. Granted, a very relaxing, spa-like museum…but after about a week, he missed the hoopla.
Dean snuggled with me all morning today. No one fought over toys. Breakfast was such an easy affair. Dean is wonderful and endearing when no one is pushing his buttons. Jane is napping peacefully for unprecidented long stretches of time because no one is running into her sanctuary of a room screaming at the top of their lungs because they are being chased by a sibling.
I have time to do my nails. It’s starting to feel like a spa around here. Shall I pop “Echoes of the Rain Forrest” up on the HiFi?
But no worries, I’m sure in less than 48 hours all this silence will start to feel unnerving and then that van will pull into the driveway with four wonderful, campfire smelling, dusty, dirty, ghost story telling, hullabaloo makers I like to call mine.
And then it will feel like home again.
Home, sweet home.