They talk on the radio of “domestic tranquility” and I laugh.  There’s not much tranquil around here unless the children are in bed. 

I try to pick up, spruce up, do the dishes up, but often, despite my best race-around-as-soon-as-naptime-is-over efforts, I welcome him home to a very messy, crazy, noisy house.  I hand him a child as I kiss him hello and then race to finish putting dinner on the table.

“What is welcoming to you?” I ask as we sit down Friday night, the candle’s scent barely discernable through the aroma of enchiladas and chilies relleno.

And he starts to quote Gaston about a little cabin and a fire, with his wife rubbing his feet. “But,” he smiles as he helps do up the dinner dishes, “three little kids running around the corner yelling ‘Daddy’s home!’ is a pretty good welcome.”

^{{Five-Minute Friday: “welcome”}}