her signature pose - hand on the hips
She stands in the 3am light in the doorway of our master bedroom, one hand on her tiny hip. Pink monkey pajama pants. Sweetest of 2-year-old voices, “I need to go potty.”
I take her to the bathroom. We are both quiet, too tired to speak. Afterward, Tim opens his arms and she snuggles in, grateful, not wanting to go back to the room across the house.
Five minutes later, her older sister appears. Five years old, with gangly limbs and extra-long eyelashes, she prefers to be squished in bed with all of us than have a mattress to herself.
Tim says, “Oh, fine. Come on in.” I giggle softly from my side – and the girls do too, before slipping off to slumber.
All four of us – no, wait, five of us – on a queen size bed.
Yesterday, Tim said, “Sometimes I think about downsizing. We only use two rooms in our house anyway.” Mmmm. I murmur in agreement. I know he’s not joking. Neither am I.
We have less stuff than ever, but we are slowing re-discovering what happiness looks like. And it’s certainly not found in Target.
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