Two little boys are camping out in the living room, in a house tent that has seen better days, a cherished hand-me-down from uncles and aunt. I sit here in my comfy Ikea throne to enforce the quiet, while candlelight dances, reflecting in the mantle mirrors. Doing this, being here, makes me feel like a good mother so I fight my own fidgets and the to do list in my head to do this for them.
Earlier today all my men went out to batten down the hatches. If Earl visits here, he will likely only throw around some garbage pails and knock down some loose tree limbs, if that much. So we wait expectantly and ooh and aah at the overcast and orange light of sunset. Storms are exciting for the little campers and their mama.
They’ll be asleep soon, right? There goes another bathroom trip. And another. A warning that they’ll have to go to sleep in their beds if this keeps up. Some yelling from the bathroom about a found flashlight. Some yelling from me about not yelling.
Good-night boys. I love you. And they answer in kind.