I’m sitting in my dim living room. And after a long, fun day of being alone with a toddler (who moonlights as a Tasmanian Devil), a baby, a dog and a cat (that reminds me, I have to go feed the cat) — I am still.
I feel like Taps should be playing.
Day is done, gone the sun, from the hills, from the lake, from the skies…
It reminds me of when I used to live on an Air Force base in Hawaii in elementary school. Every day at 5 pm, they would play Taps on loud speakers across the entire base. It was like living near a cathedral where the church bells served as musical clocks, reminding the village of a setting sun.
The baby is rolling around on the floor with one of those crinkly toys that hang from car seats. The cat, perched like a hen on the side of the rug, watches her with intensity. Someone should tell him that it’s rude to stare.
In the movie, Father of the Bride (I know, I quote a lot of romantic comedies), Steve Martin muses in his monologue: “It’s funny how empty a house can suddenly get, isn’t it?”
He was referring to his empty house, spotted with streamers and empty cups after a huge home wedding when the guests had all left. But I feel the same way at the end of a busy day when suddenly — after a day of chores, baths, going outside, coming back inside, mowing the lawn, doing laundry, a baby crying and a toddler having a tantrum, a baby giggling and a toddler doing a dance, pouring milk, warming bottles, changing diapers and picking up crumbs… after a day of reacting to the little spontaneous balls of energy that are learning and growing and never stop moving — suddenly… it is still.
Still as a crisp mountain lake beneath snowy white peaks.
Still as a wheat field in the absence of wind.
It’s the down slope of the mountain, the day after the exam, the hour after the workout. It is a time of renewal. And it is necessary.
For tomorrow comes a new day with new adventures — and there is far more fun to be had.
So I better rest up.