It's been twelve weeks and each evening is the same. The boys go to sleep - sometimes I sit with them, sometimes their daddy does - and then I settle myself in for a quiet evening. Laptop, tea, dim lamp. Exhale. Peace.
Baby girl nurses for a while. I catch her eye and she pauses to grin back at me. (Why do these beautiful moments bring with them an unexplainable ache? So perfect it hurts. I don't know.) We coo at each other when she's done. She giggles now, did I tell you? I lean forward and kiss her cheek, nuzzle her chin - deep inhale - and for now there is no one else in the world aside from us.
Eventually her giggles turn to small cries. I change her diaper, give her one last kiss, then lay her on her side of the bed. She calms beneath the warmth and weight of her grandma-knit blanket. One hand grasps the blanket's edge; the other works its way towards her mouth, our first bona fide thumb sucker. Minutes later, she breathes the soft rhythm of sleep.
I watch her from the other side of our bed. The rest of the evening is mine. I wander through my favourite online sites, read the words others have written. Sometimes I add my own; sometimes I keep silent, wondering what I have to offer amidst all these other voices. Some nights demand the mindlessness of a movie or the escapism of a book. Music, tea, hot chocolate. Laundry. Work, tickmarks on the unending to-do list. It doesn't matter just as long as I can sit here in the quiet of the evening, surrounded by these soothing blue walls. My evening home.
Just writing along with The EO...