ROUTINE: of a commonplace or repetitious character; ordinary; in accordance with established procedure
There is a magical sound coming from Son and Daughter’s room. Husband is putting them to bed, indulging them an hour-long string of intricate rituals they have come to view as essential to sleep.
Right now, there is laughter pouring out of their room. From all of them. In fact, Husband’s laughter might be the loudest. The sound triggers a beautiful sadness in me.
Our kids don’t know that what they have is special.
They don’t know that the love and dedication they get from their father is more exception than rule.
They don’t know that the percentage of kids tucked in with the patience, humor, and love they soak up each night is miniscule.
To me, the laughter and mutual adoration I hear pouring down the hall is achingly beautiful. The ache comes from a heartfelt wish that all kids could have what mine do. It comes from a wish that I had been so fortunate in my own childhood.
To Son and Daughter, it’s just another night of stalling before bedtime.
They are so blessed.