Last night, as I slid into bed quietly so as not to disturb my already-sleeping husband, two things quickly became apparent: 1) Daughter Two, “June”, is in my place, and 2) my side of the bed is covered in crumbs, many chunky crumbs. I scoot June over, because I am too tired to try and move her back to her room, and I brush the crumbs away as best I can in the dark and settle in. A small arm wraps around my shoulder and pulls me into a sideways hug. I drift off less perturbed by the mystery crumbs, and thankful that when she gets scared at night, she knows to come to me.
I’m the last up this morning. When I walk downstairs, Daughter One, “April”, is on the sofa binge-watching West Wing*, and June has roller skates on and is crouched low, roller-derby style, rolling back and forth across the kitchen floor. She seems content, and there is no hint of the worry she has been carrying about friendships, about loud noise, about school. I decide not to remind her that her skates are going to gouge the heart-of-pine floor. I’d rip up every floor in the house to give her a rest from her worries.**
*West Wing is a somewhat strange choice for a 13-year-old-girl, but I approve of her taste.
**However, we are going to need to have a discussion about the Chex Mix crumbs in my bed. Later.
I can't even 