Two parents fell asleep inadvertently on the rug, on the floor in front of the wood stove at 8:45 pm. We often do. Each day so full, so much, that by nighttime I feel like an empty husk. What happened was that the year changed. January stretched out into its long steely grey. The fire was stoked again. The little one began taking those wobbly sideways steps to keep chatting with the girl at the library. The bigger child seemed to save up her explosions for the comfort of her own home asking to be held in the screaming, spitting, stomping gyre of being five.