The house was quiet.
As the rain pounded outside, dinner simmered on the stove, sending up little puffs of steam. I sat at the counter, tweeting away.
Quiet, in a house with two kids, is something to be feared before bedtime. It means Something Is Happening That Shouldn't.
I slid off the barstool and crept down the hall. Half way to Joseph's room, I paused.
What if they were quietly playing? What if they were playing nicely? What if I disturbed a miraculous moment of peace?
I stood, my ears searching for a sound. Any sound. Straining forward, I listened.
Not a peep.
I consulted my Mummy Senses. Not a tingle.
I quietly reached the bathroom, picking up a hand mirror. Tiptoeing to the doorway of Joseph's room, I eased the mirror to the corner with all the stealth of a secret agent. It reflected two children on the floor, playing with Legos in complete accord, handing blocks to each other silently.
I tiptoed back down the hall, checked dinner and then sank back down in front of my computer. I breathed a sigh of contentment. Ahhh…peace.
As I tweeted this miraculous event, Joseph came running down the hall screaming at the top of his lungs. Ever the little mimic, Elizabeth chased after him imitating a siren.
It was nice while it lasted.