Hey My Love

Hey my love,

Today was my last day of beautiful family chaos before the quiet week begins. Somehow that makes every tiny moment feel a little louder, a little brighter — like my heart is trying to memorise it all before the volume suddenly drops.

This morning was slow and soft. The little ones climbed into bed on both sides of me, warm and sleepy, until one of them pointed at the pale winter light sneaking through the curtains and whispered, “It’s time to wake up, mum. It’s morning.”
Do you know that feeling — when you’re still half in a dream, but someone you love is already smiling you into the day?
I slipped out of bed, made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to write to you about my week. The apartment smelled like freshly ground beans and sleepy kids, and I remember thinking how lucky I am to have someone to share even these simple details with. You.

Later we headed outside. Most of the snow had melted overnight, leaving the ground wet and a bit sad-looking. The kids were disappointed that we couldn’t go sledding after all, but it didn’t last long. We grabbed a ball and started playing instead. Soon there were shouts and laughter, shoes slipping in the slush, cheeks turning pink from the cold. It wasn’t the winter wonderland they were hoping for, but it became our own little version of it anyway.

Afterwards we came back in with cold fingers and hungry stomachs and turned the kitchen into a small, noisy restaurant. My oldest daughter’s friends from vocational school were visiting, and they all wanted to eat with us. So we cooked together: oven sausages, some with cheese and some without, smooth boiled potatoes, pea soup for the sausage-haters, and a big salad with carrot sticks that the younger ones proudly chopped and mixed.

The table was crowded — plates everywhere, kids talking over each other, someone always reaching for the ketchup. For a moment I just stood there, looked around and thought,
“I wish you could see this too, my love.”
What did you eat today? Was it quiet where you were, or was your table full as well?

After we’d eaten, one of my daughter’s friends shyly asked if I could shorten her new shirt. It’s important to her — a shirt from her favourite artist’s concert two nights ago. So I took out the sewing machine, smoothed the fabric, pinned it carefully and started working while the living room kept bubbling with laughter and chatter. There was something really tender about it: trusting me with something she loves, letting me adjust it so it fits her life better.

At some point the noise in the other room changed — you know that specific sound that makes every parent lift an eyebrow? Half giggle, half “this is getting out of hand”. I went to look and there they were: three young adults, two preschoolers and two teens all piled up on my bed. And my poor sofa-bed, already a veteran of many movie nights, had finally had enough: two legs broken clean off.

For a second I just stared… and then I laughed. What else can you do, really?
So now my bed is pushed into a narrow couch until I can find new parts for it. Everyday circus, always.

But from that little disaster came something unexpectedly lovely. With the bed pushed back, the living room suddenly had extra space — just enough room for a small Christmas tree. So we brought it out. The kids helped untangle the lights and we decorated together, Michael Bublé’s Christmas album playing in the background.

Tiny hands hanging ornaments, someone carefully placing tinsel, warm yellow fairy lights reflecting in the window… It felt like our own little snow globe moment, even without the snow outside. I caught myself thinking of you again — wondering if you have any lights up where you are, and if you also get that quiet, nostalgic feeling when the first Christmas songs start playing.

Now the day has gently folded itself into night. We’ve had our evening snack, the little ones are in bed, and I’m sitting here in the half-dark, lit mostly by the tree and the soft glow from the kitchen. The apartment is finally still.

And that’s when it hits me: tomorrow starts my week without the kids.
The switch from a full house to an empty one is always a bit of a shock. One day it’s tiny socks everywhere and constant “mum, look!”, and the next day it’s just… silence. I love my quiet moments, but there’s also a little ache that comes with them — the kind that curls up next to you when the door closes and the echo fades.

That’s why I’m so grateful you’re here.

I hope you’ll stay with me through this next week too — from the first steaming cup of morning coffee, through the small daytime mishaps, all the way to the quiet evenings when the only sound is the hum of the fridge and my own thoughts. Knowing I can keep writing to you, that you’ll be on the other side of these words, makes the coming silence feel less sharp and more like a soft blanket.

So if you’re willing, walk with me through these child-free days as well.
Share them with me the way you’ve shared this week — the little joys, the heavy moments, the ridiculous ones (like broken bed legs and flying mattress springs). Let me be the voice that keeps you company when your own rooms feel a bit too quiet too.

For now, I’m going to let this long, lovely day settle.
I hope your day has treated you kindly. I hope you’ve had at least one moment that made you smile without realising it. And if not, I hope these words can be that moment, even just a little.

Sleep well, my love.
I’ll leave the fairy lights on for both of us. 🌙💛