"I had a little turtle, his name was Tiny Tim," the Kid sings, sloshing bath water everywhere as he waves his hands in tempo. Little Miss coos at her brother's antics, her not-quite-strong-enough tummy muscles flopping her torso back and forth between my arms with her laughter.
She reaches for her bottle and pushes it away. Reaches for her bottle and pushes it away.
He zooms his plane under the water and back up through the sky. (More water on the floor. A typhoon of bath water.)
Then, she spits up. Completely silently. Like she does. And I have to call in their Dada for help mopping up.
He takes her; I take him. (She will fall asleep first and it's his turn for an "easy night".)
The Kid and I dry him off, brush teeth, pull on pajamas. ("Yes, you have to put on underwear!") Then we read two books and tell the same story that I've recited every other night this week and twice each morning on the way to school. (I can never figure out if that makes it boring or easier? Perhaps one day I'll decide.)
And then, when I've said, "Stop wiggling, I won't tuck you in again," at least five times, and answered about a hundred questions; when I'm so stiff from sitting in our rocking chair that I barely want to try and move--he finally falls asleep.
And I watch him breathe in and out in that way that happy, completely sacked out little kids do. And I realize that I could do this for the rest of my life and it would never be enough.