Usually I'm in the kitchen, bare feet on the linoleum floor, old country on Pandora, stirring whatever concoction is simmering on the stove top, dashing back and forth between the fridge and the stove. Remy squeals from his high chair, rocking back and forth with gusto, chattering in his own little language.
The older kids wander in and out of the kitchen, inquiring about dinner, stealing snacks out of the pantry when they think I'm not looking while they argue over who gets to pick the TV channel or whether or not one accidentally bumped into another. Another minute, another disagreement with those two.
Then we see it. The white truck, backing up into its parking spot.
"Olivia, hide!"...Owen shouts from underneath the breakfast table, stifling a laugh. Olivia tries her best to wiggle into the space behind the heavy yellow back door. Though she rarely can keep quiet long enough to keep her hiding place unknown.
The short lived silence is broken by the familiar, high pitched sound of the storm door squeaking open. His work boots barely hit the rug and the kids' chorus of laughter has once again filled the room.
I steal a quick hug and kiss from him and silently thank God that we're all under one roof again.
And that's my favorite time of day.
Every single day.