The Calm of the Storm Before the Storm

Sunday night’s a trainwreck
rolling downhill, off the tracks,
five kids,
five stories,
five plates still stacked with homework,
responsibilities,
and dishes
but only two parents holding it together like scotch tape on a hurricane.

The oldest two—
teenagers with thumbs glued to controllers,
piling up points like responsibilities,
pressing buttons like those last-second calls to push back deadlines—
They whine like it’s their Olympic sport.
“Mom, it’s Sunday,
why do we have to think about Monday?“
as if Monday is some faraway place,
some never-land,
but it’s creeping up behind them like the unfinished math homework
sitting in a heap on their desks.

Kid three? He’s chill,
already got his backpack packed, shoes by the door,
but his eyes are locked on the football game.
The clatter of helmets smashing
echoes through the room
while he sits still, like some Buddha among the chaos,
letting the mess of the night orbit around him,
content to stay wrapped in the cocoon of the game
while the world just spins.

Kid four walks in the door,
head full of stars and stardust,
astronomy books under his arm,
like he’s just returned from another galaxy.
He stumbles over toys and laundry
but doesn’t see the mess—
just thinks about the vastness of space,
the calm of the night sky.
What’s a little chaos when you’ve touched the infinite, right?
His room smells like night air and wonder.

And then there’s her—
the youngest,
she’s everywhere.
Cartwheels across the living room,
leaps through the kitchen,
dolls scattered in her wake,
her laughter spins the air like a gymnast herself,
untethered, unburdened,
with no concept of clocks or calendars.
She’s on her own time,
and all the clocks are broken anyway.

The mother?
She’s a silent storm,
holding the weight of the world
in the slump of her shoulders.
Exhaustion hits her like a freight train
with no brakes,
but she keeps moving,
because Sunday night doesn’t care if you’re tired,
and there’s still laundry to fold, lunches to pack,
emails to send,
and a meeting in the morning
about the meetings you’ll have next week.

But the father—
oh, the father—
he’s tired, too,
but his tired’s got a different flavor.
A contentment, a joy, a peace
in the eye of this wild storm.
His boys are arguing,
his daughter’s a tornado of cartwheels,
but he breathes it in,
like the scent of fresh-cut grass at a ballpark.
Because what’s work,
what’s baseball practice,
what’s Boy Scouts and homework
and all the chaos,
when there’s laughter?

The week’s going to be a marathon:
Boy Scout meetings, cross-country practice,
baseball games,
homework deadlines snapping at their heels,
like hounds at the hunt.
But tonight,
amidst the clutter of schoolbags and video game controllers
and a living room that looks like a battlefield
of socks and Legos,
he finds peace.

The house is loud,
but his heart is quiet,
because the mess means life,
the chaos means love,
and the work,
oh, the work,
it’s the price of joy.