Good Night, House

I love the nightly ritual of putting the house to bed.

I turn off all of the lights, leaving little glows beaming down from the microwave and fireplace. I click off the fish tank light (who would have thought we would have fish? Have to say: Anna and Elsa are some kick ass fish) and pad my way in barefeet to check the lock on the front door. The dishwasher and dryer hum in the darkness behind me. I stare out into the street, looking for the moon.

Tiptoeing up the stairs, I listen for sounds of stirring. A TV chatters behind our half-closed bedroom door. A thud of feet against crib mattress comes from Will.

In Claire's room, I find a sprawled, sweaty heap of child. Tucking crooked legs back under covers, stashing books on the night stand, smoothing hair behind little ears, I lean down to kiss her forehead. I'm met with mumbled gibberish and a shift to the cool side of the pillow. Good night, sweet girl.

I almost laugh out loud at the snoring in Jenna's room. A round little bottom points to the ceiling, clad in tonight's selection of princess dresses. Oh, my Jenna. I cover her up with her blanket, repositioning Hop and baba for middle-of-the-night-cuddles. Shutting her door, I pause at the brightly lit bathroom and switch on the night light, hoping against hope that tonight, Claire will sleep the entire way through without noticing the switch.

In Will's room, I pause at the sight of the big boy in a baby crib. Six months have disappeared before our eyes. In a life of so much pink and purple, I am still in awe of this world of blue. Even in sleep he's all boy. He shifts, always ticklish, under his mom's light touch. See you at 2am, little man. Unless you want to sleep like a champ...

From the doorway of our own room, I watch my sleeping husband - my partner in all of this. He'll say in the morning he tried to wait up for me, but we both know he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. Sometimes we laugh that we still feel, after all of this time, like we're playing house. How did this sleeping brood become our tribe? Who did we trick into letting us be responsible?

I pause in the hallway, momentarily connected to all of my people. All that's missing now is the click clack of dog nails on the floorboards - though I swear I still feel Rocky. Yes, all we need are dog sounds - and maybe those of another little baby, sharing a room with his brother. (Just don't tell Dad I said that. He's focused only on a four-legged addition to said tribe).

For all of the hub bub beauty of the day, my favorite time is at the end.

When I can put our house to bed and
fall asleep to the rhythm of its rooms.