I’ve told Darin that every so often I hear something in the house that makes me think, “Oh, it’s haunted.” Not really haunted, no—I just hear a noise I can’t figure out, or that sounds like footsteps, or something. Unusual noises in a still-new-to-me house. A house settling.

Today was cold and overcast and sometimes rainy—hello winter, you’re relatively right on time—and the kids fell asleep in the car coming back from the library. So I put Sophia in her bed and I put Simon in bed with me. He’s sick at the moment, and if there’s anything more likely to bring out the mama-bear instincts than a coughing, congested 17-month-old, I don’t want to know what it is: I would probably burst into tears and curl up into a ball. On top of that I was experiencing the kind of midafternoon all-systems shutdown I can’t have too many of these days, because usually if one kid’s asleep, the other’s awake. I had both asleep. Time to take advantage of it. Simon and I settled into my bed and everybody napped.

Sophia woke us up some time later by crawling into bed with us. I’d slept hard and was having trouble getting my wits about me. I heard some of those sounds I hear periodically, sounds of footsteps somewhere in the house far away.

“There’s a man in the house,” Sophia said matter-of-factly. “And he’s angry.”

She was playing around, of course…but the fact that she heard the footsteps too freaked me out. (Her adding the adjective “angry” didn’t help either.) For a few seconds I was completely afraid that there was someone in the house with us, a woman and two kids.

I think I lost about a year off my life over the next minute as I kept listening.

There were no other sounds. If someone was in the house I didn’t hear him leave, which means he’s still here—all of the doors in the house are alarmed to emit a noise if opened (which is nice when you have two tots). I don’t really think anyone was here.

I’m still a little winded by how scared I got, though.

And he’s angry. Quite the storyteller, that one. Always knows the right moment to twist the knife.

Every other Thursday (more or less) I take the kids up to the City so they can see my parents for an hour or two while I sneak out to Boulangerie Bay Bread and buy Darin some cannelés. It’s an hour up to the City and an hour back. The kids sleep on the way there and usually on the way back too, which means that they’re up and perky by the time we get back home.

I, of course, am wiped.

So right now we are sitting in one corner of the living room couch watching Dumbo. Sophia loves watching this and Pinocchio, and I have to admit that both of them weird me out: Dumbo’s Mama taken away! Pinocchio’s being held in a cage! The pink elephant scene! But Sophia likes them.

Anyhow, the weather has gotten overcast and chilly in our area—it even rained a little today. The kind of day where I want to stay in bed and read Regency romance novels and drink hot cocoa. Of course, this fantasy now includes me attempting to do this while a 3 year old uses my bed as a trampoline and a 1 year old uses my stomach as a nice soft napping bed.

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My general policy has been to let Sophia choose her own clothes in the morning. There are no fights about clothing and half the time she’s dressed before I get down to the kitchen, which is always a plus. Now that the weather has changed, however, this isn’t working out as well: the striped tank top with yellow shorts isn’t so great on a day in the high 50s. So I’ve been trying to explain to her why I think she should wear warmer clothing and offering warmer alternatives to her. Sometimes she goes along with me and sometimes she doesn’t. I’m hoping that after a few experiences of wearing a tank top on a chilly November morning will convince her of the wisdom of Mama’s clothing choices.