In addition to my kitchen crisis, we have stairs. The stairs represent a never ending battle between myself and said baby boy. I stack a combination of two fully inflated inter tubes and 1 couch cushion, resulting in a 3 1/2 foot barricade that not only keeps Oliver from going up the stairs (and falling down them) but also means that the rest of us get to maneuver over the obstacle--we approach the stairs one of two ways: either we walk on my couch and climb over the banister, or we clumsily step over the 3 1/2 foot tower.
Yesterday, I was trying to digest my situation, feeling like I will never again have a clean and clutter free environment where I can sing my heart out without apartment neighbors being bothered. I looked outside and noticed a rare occurrence--my neighbors were not at home. So for the second time since moving here I sang, wishing I knew which box the disks to my player piano were. I said a half hearted prayer that they'd turn up--half hearted because, quite honestly, lately I've felt that my most earnest prayers are not being answered.
After putting the kids to bed, I went on my nightly run while Noah stayed home with the two sleeping kids and the one screaming baby.
When I returned Noah was sitting at the piano with Oliver, playing one of my disks I hadn't heard since we left Utah. Without knowing I was looking for them, Noah had rummaged around some boxes looking for an old text book. It was there he uncovered my missing disks--the very disks I had prayed to find.
I needed that.