No matter how much you love your children, no matter how well behaved they've been, how lovely the day was together, how much you'll miss them when you tuck them into bed . . .
there's something magical about the silence of the house after they've fallen asleep.
I wish I could say Isä and I do exciting things when the Weans are visiting the Land of Nod, where mice crawl into Foo's bed and Mousie dreams of everything turning into Octopods, GUPs and Octonauts, but we don't. We drop off into our own cyberspace worlds and sometimes barely resurface. It's nice not having to respond or entertain each other unless we want to.
During the weekend I've been updating the Weans' Memory Books, printing out pictures, writing out what they've been up to. It's strange looking back at the scan photos and shots of each child reaching milestones of sitting up, crawling, walking, first day at nursery that soon it will have been 5 years since the first little Nugget appeared on the scene and totally upended our lives.
Before he arrived I dreamt that he would be born shouting 'Ta Dah!' with a flourish. It suits his personality, you always know where he is and what he's doing. He's not quite the showy front man, but he's definitely the Narrator of his own story, needing to be heard.
But now even he is silent, blanketless, lying across his pillows most likely. With his brother snoring in the bunk below him and his sister curled into her Baba in milky sleep.
And Isä is across the room playing some game and I have nothing to do but think about sleeping babies and imagine the cup of tea I will soon make.