Three years later, the house was even louder.And stickier.Mostly because our daughter had discovered ice cream… and world domination.
"Mommyyy! He took my chocolate scoop!" she cried, stomping her little foot so hard the spoon in her hand rattled. Her curls bounced, her cheeks puffed up like a mini storm cloud, and somewhere deep in my soul—I knew chaos had officially begun.
Her brother, now eight and full of unearned confidence, crossed his arms. "I didn't take it, I borrowed it."
"BORROWED?!" she shrieked. "You licked it!!"
Peryn was sitting at the table, pretending to read the newspaper but very obviously hiding a grin. "Technically, that's true, son. Once you lick something, it's legally yours."
"Daddy!" our daughter yelled, outraged. "That's not FAIR!"
He looked over the paper at me, eyes glinting mischievously. "Well, sweetheart, fairness left this house when your brother was born."
"Peryn."I said his name the way one says 'you have exactly three seconds to stop before you're sleeping on the couch.'
He coughed. "Right, right, yes—sharing is caring, kids! Teamwork!"
But our son was already holding the spoon above his head like a trophy. "If she wants it, she's gotta catch me!"
"NOOOO!" she squealed, launching herself after him.
And suddenly, my living room turned into a full-on chase scene: one screaming, one laughing, one pretending to trip for dramatic effect, and me just standing there holding a napkin, wondering how my life had turned into a cartoon.
Peryn glanced at me, grinning like an idiot. "This is karma for when you said you wanted a daughter, huh?"
I sighed, fighting a laugh. "You said you wanted a peaceful home."
"Touché," he said, and pulled me closer.
For a moment, we just stood there watching them—our little whirlwinds. She was fierce and fiery, just like me (which terrified Peryn to no end), and he was protective, playful, and way too much like his dad.
Eventually, the war ended when I pulled out the "secret stash"—a hidden tub of strawberry ice cream. Both kids froze instantly.
"Okay," I said, holding the tub like a holy relic, "who's ready for a truce?"
Their hands shot up in perfect sync. "ME!"
"Then we share," I said firmly.
Peryn raised a brow. "Even me?"
I rolled my eyes. "You, Mr. Smoke-Flavored-Pancake-Chef, are on dish duty."
"Harsh," he said, clutching his heart in fake pain.
As the kids settled beside each other with bowls full of peace-offering ice cream, I couldn't help but smile. The sunlight spilled through the curtains, laughter filled every corner, and I realized that the chaos—the mess, the noise, the endless laundry—was everything I'd ever wanted.
Peryn looked at me, a little strawberry on his cheek (from stealing a spoonful, of course). "You know," he said softly, "Super Dad's life's pretty perfect right now."
I smiled, leaning into him. "Don't get too comfy. They'll start fighting over the TV next."
He chuckled, slipping his arm around me. "Good. I like a little action in my day."
Our son giggled. "Ew, are you guys being lovey again?"
Our daughter scrunched her nose. "Yuck!"
And Peryn just winked at me. "Jealous, huh?"
"Daddy!" they both yelled in unison, while I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my spoon.
Because really—this was us.Loud, messy, loving, and endlessly alive.And honestly? I wouldn't trade it for all the peaceful silence in the world.