Reunited

Covid benched me for a full damn week. No kids. No chaos. Just me pacing the house like a caged tiger (minus the cool stripes, plus sweatpants), thinking about them nonstop. My sister finally cracks and goes, “They’re over me… they keep asking for you.” Which, honestly? Iconic. Like, put it on a T-shirt.

So I roll back in, still hacking up a lung like I swallowed a kazoo, and immediately hear what sounds like elephants stampeding upstairs—except elephants probably have better coordination than two barefoot maniacs in Bluey pajamas. And can we pause for a second? I’ve got Vicks smeared under my nose, hair looking like I lost a bar fight with a rabid squirrel, and somehow I’m still the headliner act these kids can’t live without. Being Auntie is a full-time flex.

The thundering herd descends, Branch screams “QUEEN POPPY!!” and body-slams me with the kind of hug that requires chiropractic care. And listen—when those kids hug me, I don’t let go until they do. This one lasted forever. I thought my spine was going to snap, but my heart was like, “Cool, worth it, carry on.” I didn’t realize how bad I needed it until that exact moment.

Later, nap time with Bubs. We’re rocking, his little eyes doing that glassy sleepy stare, and he whispers: “TeeTee home.” (aka toddler for “world is back on its axis, crisis averted.”) And I said, “Yes, Bubs. TeeTee is home.” Because sometimes that’s all they need—not toys, not trips, not Instagrammable bullshit—just you, right where you belong.