Today was most definitely a trade-in day. A day where, as the sun rose or peeked through the clouds or whatever it did this morning to cause light, I would have just traded it in for some different day. If I had known what was to come, that is. That included a multitude of little boy fits, sick kids and a visit to the immediate care center for an ear infection, a hurling session when we tried to coax medicine into a 2-year-old's gullet, whiny kids up the kazoo and bad attitudes in plethoraness and even multiple myriadness (Editor's note: Oh, I get it. You just like making up words, don't you? Author's reply: You're catching on.). In the interest of self-disclosure, that bad attitudeness includes me. All of this yuckiness occurred on Olivia's first birthday.
Yes, Olivia turned 1 today and Claire made a beautiful cake that looked like a pink and yellow flower -- she's very talented in the design and cake-making business in case anyone needs to hire one out -- and I heard the "Happy Birthday" song being sung to Olivia tonight. While I was upstairs settling an issue of "bad attitudeness/humongous fit" exhibited by our resident 4-year-old. Hopefully Olivia will find it in her heart to someday forgive me for missing her shindig.
But as I'm sitting here typing away, the house is silent. All I can hear is the hum of the fridge, the rattling of the keyboard and, well, the ringing in my ears. As much as I'm enjoying the moment I know there are sweeter sounds than the silence in the house. I really don't have to try too hard to think of them. First thing that comes to mind is the giggle of my babies. Those little belly laughs that make me laugh right alongside. Or the little kids singing songs together with Julie at bedtime. But here's one that's always my favorite. I like to take walks in the house late at night just before I hit the sack when everything is quiet. I tread oh so softly into the room where our latest beautiful baby is sleeping and get right up next to their bassinet and lean down to listen to them breathing. Quick little breaths, one right after another. Sometimes I almost have to stop and hold my own breath to hear the baby's breathing. I like to lean down and get so close that I can smell my baby and sometimes I dare to softly put my hand on the baby's back or chest. Hoping all the time, of course, the baby doesn't stir. It's addicting I tell you. And I suppose there will come a day when my late-night strolls through our house won't take me past any breathing babies. I'm not particularly looking forward to that. Even after a day like today.