We've been staying at Sam's parents' house for the past week. Well, actually - we've been back home now for three nights. But, anyway, lets not be too exact and pedantic.

My Dad is building us a new kitchen. So, so, so exciting and wonderful and lovely and... so overdue. I will post photos when it's finished. We're allowed back home now, as we have running water and gas back again. (After the plumber was two hours late on Friday, worked for half an hour, and had to come back Monday to actually do any work. And then, charge us more than $600 for the privilege).

Being away made me realise that I love my little home so much. As a house it's not really that much. No pretty Queenslander for us, no verandas or patios or great outdoor spaces to be in, no well maintained garden (just a muddy hilly patch of "stuff" with a bit of plant life, that goes through stages of being loved and then neglected). No separate lounge, dining, guest room, nursery, play room, art/craft/discovery room for us. Just a small two bedroom, (possibly -I'm making this up, with absolute assurity that I know this to be the truth) post-50's style boxy house. But, it's my home - and I've remembered that I really do love it.

I love whats in it. My things, and our things, and the feeling of being in. The peace, the tranquility (now I'm actually stretching the truth. As I live across the road from a train-line, next door to some very noisy people, and in a house with two small people - who can make more noise than the sum of their sizes). Our home is almost always messy, or at least a neat shambles, dusty, cluttered. But, our things mean something to me. Our things are us.

Sam and I have a particular "decorating style" that just evolves and happens. Often, from adding, adding, adding and occasionally removing, but more like putting somewhere else. All the dead/dying plant life and seedpods that Ari and I have been collecting over the past weeks are spilling from vases and scattered in plates and dishes on bookshelves and windowsills. Photos are tacked to walls or leaning on shelves. "Things" - of which we have MANY - are arranged and displayed.

And while I am so very grateful to my parents-in-law for being wonderful, generous grandparents and parents - I am so glad to be back home.

Being back home means sleeping in one's own bed. Even if that bed is shared with the three dear loves of my life. But, I so love listening to my babes sleeping. I love feeling their warm bodies and hearing their soft snores. Almost touching their dreams - though, I know, I know - never can I touch the dreams of a child. For childrens' dreams are magical in a way we forget and rarely regain in adulthood.

Reasons I love listening to them sleep:

not most importantly, but firstly, the fact that they are actually asleep and I have a small moments' peace and quiet;

they are so soft, quiet, innocent in ways different than during the day;

I can sometimes see the person who they may grow up to be. I (imagine that I) see the face of what in the world they might be (lyrics from something that I can't quite remember at the moment... hmmm? Joni Mitchell?);

the sweet, warm breath of a sleeping child;

..... many more reasons, that right now seem to be slipping away from forming into words.

One thing about sleeping children - babies need nappy changes and topping up with breastmilk, toddlers need wees and hugs to fend of bad dreams.

So, no photos or links tonight. Simply a few words. As my two little ones are good at playing tag - with me chasing them constantly. They play in their sleep as effortlessly as in the day :: Mishi milking, Ari waking bolt upright and wanting to be "out of the bed", then laying down fast asleep again.

Good night. Good to be home again.

PS - in case anyone was at all curious or slightly worried :: Bunny came home. The lovely bus driver lady sent him to lost property where he got an excellent little luggage tag and overnight stay in the city. Unfortunately he didn't have a bath while on holiday!