Our family room is littered with an Easter Basket (the colors of the Chicago Bears, which makes it more "boyish"), one of Buddy's baby blankets, and two Pirates of the Carribean head scarves.
Our kitchen contains a sinkful of dishes, and a counter full of leftover cereal boxes, an empty juice container, and a Beta fish in a filthy fish bowl. There is an unfinished grocery list on the island.
Our living room is a sea of toys, spilling over into the dining room.
Hubby is reading his newspaper at the same diningroom table where the two girls (still dressed in their pajamas) are playing with Barbies and other dolls.
Buddy is now playing under the kitchen table with the "Choo-Choo" -- wait no, now he's putting the choo-choo into the leftover Easter Basket. Now he's standing next to me, sipping "muck" from a Nemo cup with a straw -- and spilling on the floor. The boy is always on the move.
Faith Hill's "Fireflies" is on the CD player.
There are loads of laundry that need tending to, and the kids have already asked to play with the slip and slide outside later.
Just now, though, I noticed it. The peace. It's back. I don't know how long it will stay, but I'm so glad it's here.
I've missed it.