The Quiet Between Adventures

For every parent who has swept up the remnants of wonder.

There’s a certain hush that falls over the house once the morning rush fades — toys half-forgotten, stories paused mid-scene. It’s in that hush that I often find myself tidying the remnants of play: tiny worlds built and left behind, echoes of laughter still lingering in the corners.

Motherhood, I’ve learned, lives in these quiet intervals just as much as in the noise and motion. The pauses are their own kind of sacred — a reminder that even ordinary moments hold the shimmer of imagination waiting to return.

THE QUIET BETWEEN ADVENTURES

Cheerios trace soft constellations
across the kitchen tile.
Cars and Lego drift
like tiny planets in orbit
around the living room rug.

The couch is a refuge
for woodland creatures—
a fox, a fawn, a sleepy bear.
In the doorway,
a row of small guardians—
astronauts, unicorns,
and a rainbow cat—stand watch.

By the bookshelf,
an unfinished tea party waits,
a doll and her stuffed bunny
paused mid-laughter,
cups still half full of pretend.

I sweep up the fallen stars,
gather the planets to their bins,
tuck each creature
into baskets and beds.
The guards may rest for now.
The tea party will resume at three,
when the door bursts open
and this quiet house
breathes magic once again.