And sometimes there’s nothing particularly profound to write.

There’s just my cold feet against his warm ones under the covers. There’s just a series of nightly visits by boys who’ve dreamed of sharks or monsters or are just plain cold and seeking shelter. Back-to-back and little bodies spooning between us, there’s just four people, a pregnant belly, and a pile of down comforters, quilts and whispered good nights. At 3am.

There’s home even when we’re on the road.

And we’ve been on the road nearly two weeks now. Suitcases, potty training and the pink pacifier. We are the four walls of home. Generating foundation and routine in the the midst of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles. We are the constant when the houses and time zones change. We can be high on fudge and family and nerf gun wars and still find balance in the quiet spaces in the whispered watches of the night when it’s just the four of us.

We are adrift and at peace in the familiarity of one another.

The routine of milk bottles and misplaced blankies is the same. The sticky kisses and tight hugs. The whining. The making up. We are compass and map and guide for one another. We are four but really we are just one flesh.

And when it isn’t driving us crazy, it’s so freakin’ great.


PS: Curious about some of my favorite tips for traveling with kids and still enjoying the experience? Come back tomorrow.

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