Coming home to the kids

I pull into the cul de sac and peer toward my house. The front room light is on, but the bedroom lights are out. There is no evidence for any of the catastrophic imaginings my brain began to supply when the kids did not answer my phone call to check up on them. This bodes well. I park and walk into the house. The sweet smell of home hits my nose. It is another bit of evidence that all is well. I walk into the kitchen and it is a wreck. The counters and table are covered with boxes, dishes, and debris. Odd though it may seem, this is also reassuring. I can see that they ate dinner and that they had a bedtime snack. I find the kids themselves asleep in beds. Link is in my bed. He obviously fell asleep while trying to wait up for me like a good babysitter. This is likely why he did not answer the phone call. The two fly swatters next to him are a mystery, I’ll have to ask tomorrow. All is well. More than that, every evidence I have is that they took care of each other and followed the script I walked them through before leaving. This is good and a lovely contrast to the last time when there was weeping and yelling for me to sort out upon my return. I kiss all of my children and am glad to be home.