My youngest child is upstairs playing with her friend. They are entertaining each other with dolls and toys as only five year olds can. It is loud, cheerful, and punctuated with statements like “Strawberry Shortcake, don’t go over the cliff!” and “Barbie, use your superpowers to rescue them!” They have been warned against flinging legos. I don’t care if they are trying to “create” an earthquake, we don’t throw toys.
Downstairs my older children are writing in their notebooks while trying to decide if Trinity has malaria or if she is just tired. “You feel warm, but not really hot, and I don’t see any mosquito bites, you’re probably just tired,” my son pronounces. “That’s what I thought, but I wanted your opinion,” Trinity confides.
Later, everybody runs outside, yelling and laughing while I scrub the sink. Eventually someone will get sand in their eye or not get a long enough turn on the swing and I will be asked to step in as judge.
Grumbling swishy sounds come from the dishwasher and washing machine. The odors of cleaning products mingle with the aroma of the crock-pot that is bubbling away industriously. These sounds and smells relax me, reminding me that everything is on schedule.
It is an ordinary day.
Which is why it is perfect.