Babies are known for liking routine, and, just like my little girl, I have grown accustomed to the rhythm of our life:
To the waking beep of the watch, the giggles of Daddy and daughter in the kitchen, crunch of granola and the slap of small hands on plastic tray.
To the watching at the window as Daddy rolls away on his bike, his red helmet waving cheerfully to his girls.
To the diaper changes, the silly songs, the small feet skipping and tripping behind me from bedroom to bathroom to front door.
To the swish and sizzle of Tuesday night stir-fry, fresh veggies and steamed rice, then sleepy parents playing out the last half hour before the little one’s bedtime, the nightly book and toothbrush and lullaby.
To the sweet hours of the baby’s sleep, the quiet tapping and breathing of my husband at his desk, a little more work, then dishes clinking clean under our hands.
To nighttime wrapping its velvet round us and tucking us in to sleep, sleep until the small cry or giggle of morning from the room next to ours, until my husband rises to greet the first diaper change of the day as I lie quiet just a few more minutes, thankful for this small peace before the rhythm again grows jaunty in this new day.