The Rhythm of the House

• a bedtime story for grown-ups with little ones

By Minhee Yeo

Once upon a time, in a cosy little house — the kind where toys gathered under the sofa like they’d formed a secret society, and crumbs had taken up permanent residence beneath the table — lived a Mama named Mari.

She had two little stars who filled her days with love (and laundry): four-year-old Isobel — a joyful chatterbox with a serious love of broccoli — and baby Otto, three months old and as relaxed as a tiny monk wrapped in a sleepsuit.

Every morning, just before the sun blinked awake, Otto would make a soft little squeak.

“Eeeeehh.”
It was his gentle signal for milk — polite, but firm.

Mama Mari didn’t even need to leave the bed. She’d stretch, yawn, and scoop Otto from his baby cot right next to her bed, settling him into the cosy feeding nook she’d built into the headboard — a little sanctuary of squishy pillows, muslins within reach, and sleepy baby snuggles.

Some mornings, Isobel would tiptoe in with ninja-like grace, whispering, “Mama, I had a dream I slid into a swimming pool that was inside a watermelon.”

No one quite knew how her dreams worked — possibly magic, possibly melon — but Mari cherished every surreal little tale.

And so they’d sit there together: one sleepy mama, one imaginative dreamer, and one perfectly content little feeder. Their own kind of morning meeting.

Breakfast followed — nothing on the floor (Isobel was far too efficient for that), but goodness, she took ages.

“Chew, chew, chew,” said Mama.
“I am chewing,” replied Isobel — still mid-bite from ten minutes ago.

One lost sock (usually Mama’s), and a school run that somehow always started five minutes late.

“Shoes on, Isobel!”
“Where’s the baby’s burp cloth?”
“Did I brush my teeth? … Sort of.”

But somehow, they always made it.
They always did.

The day spun gently along, full of baby giggles, nap attempts, crumbs being swept and then immediately re-scattered, and small pauses where Mari closed her eyes for just one minute — until someone needed something, of course.

In the afternoon, Isobel would return from school with paint on her sleeves, twigs in her pockets, and a story tumbling out before the door even shut.

The house filled with sound again — the happy kind, the tired kind, and the “Can I have more broccoli, please?” kind.

Evening brought its own kind of magic.

Warm baths, soggy flannels, sleepy books read twice in a row, and the sweet routine of milk and forehead kisses. Isobel tucked herself into her blanket fort like a queen in her castle.
Otto gave a big baby yawn that said, “You did it again, Mama.”

Later, in the hush that followed — that rare, golden silence born from full tummies and finally-closed eyelids — Mama Mari sat with a warm cup of tea, her shoulders sinking slowly back down.

Papa Leo peeked in from the kitchen.

“You do all this,” he said, “and still remember to brush your teeth. Impressive.”

“Only the bottom row,” said Mari. “They were the lucky ones today.”

They laughed.
Not a loud laugh — that might wake someone — but the kind of laugh that lives in your lungs and lets you breathe a little deeper after a long day.

And so the rhythm continued.
Some days were shiny. Others were chaos with a side of nappy cream.

But the house hummed with love, with sleepy hugs, and the sound of tiny feet finding their way in the world.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs.

Goodnight to the little stars, to the busy hands and warm hearts.

May tomorrow bring new stories, fresh giggles, and just enough quiet moments to breathe.