Dinner was a shocking success. No tears over spills or claims that you are the worst mom ever because you prepared something nasty. That they would vomit right there if they had to take even one eensy bite. No. They swarmed the table like locusts, eating everything and asking for more. And when it was done, truly done, the serving dishes bare, they sprang from the table and pattered away like a sudden Summer rain.
You sit alone. There are only the remnants on plates: small bits of rice and a few drips of sauce. You could call them back to clear the mess, but they are laughing and spinning and exclaiming that life is better than great. You enjoy their voluminous joy and your distance from it. You enjoy your own fullness, and a deep, infrequent sense of success.
Let them play amongst themselves. Your work is finished for now.
Later, there will be bedtime stories and cuddles and kisses. There will likely be tears as you settle them under night-darkened blankets. They will whisper their fear of monsters breathing in the dark. They will hold you as you kiss their soft faces, as you transition to the life you live while they drift in sleep.