we'll leave the light on

It was a bit more hectic than it used to be, when we'd plug in the baby monitor in Elijah and Priscilla's room and walk upstairs from our half of the two-flat we co-owned in Chicago to yours to watch a movie, eat enchiladas. We've been busy multiplying- busy settling in. We're separated now by a couple hundred miles, less apt to stay awake past 10:00 pm. My kids were staring anxiously out the window for an hour before your arrival. To them, to Troy and I, you're family.

From Friday to Sunday, we made meals, cleaned up meals, laughed and marveled at the children. Every room of our old house was filled with life, with action, every dish we owned dirtied, every memory recalled even as new memories formed. It was a bit more hectic, more fun, more meaningful. It was awesome of you to pack up your stuff, pile in your van, and make the effort to come and see us, just because.

I always feel melancholy right after you leave. It quiets down and makes your absence from our every day lives that much more obvious. We will play phone tag several times a week, leaving long and rambling messages, but it's not the same - not the same as watching Benjamin and Thomas playing Battleship, talking intently over coffee, delighting in Russell and Elliot learning new words, new signs, pretending their hands have been chopped off by Darth Vader's light saber, hearing Jared and Priscilla sing a Beauty and the Beast themed duet.

I don't care how many more little ones we add to the mix; I don't care how loud or how messy it gets; I don't care what time of the year, what time of day or night it is, you are always welcome, always, always wanted; we'll leave the light on.