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Little Brother became obsessed recently with a book at his school called An Anthology of Intriguing Animals. (I have my suspicions that his teachers began hiding it because he wanted them to read it so often.) On a recent trip to Costco, I saw the book and grabbed it, proudly holding it up as I returned to the boys and The Husband. LB shrieked with joy.

We read it every day.

As kids’ books go, it’s actually decent. Better than decent, because there are enough animals in there for my memory to repeatedly forget the ones I read a few days ago, so I keep relearning interesting facts. Did you know that killer whales aren’t whales, but dolphins? That king cobras don’t hiss, but growl? Or that female sea turtles return to the beach where they were born to lay their own eggs?

That one made me stop and think (over LB’s cries for me to KEEP GOING). This time of year always upends me: it’s meant to be cold with shortened days full of baking and football in the background as Thanksgiving and the Westminster Dog Show approach. Instead, the sun is rising at 5:45 am, setting after 7:30, I’ve switched back to unnatural deodorant because pit stains, and there is no Thanksgiving.

And there’s this: the other day, LB asked why it’s cold in America at Christmas. BECAUSE THAT’S THE WAY IT SHOULD BE! I wanted to reply, then realised that he’s had more Christmas seasons in warm weather than cold; is this his normal now? Is this their, our normal, waking up in hotel rooms on beaches or in former hometowns or in current rentals, doing Christmas not in the house we came to from the hospital with them but somewhere else? Often somewhere hot?

That can’t be right…can it?

The boys want to know about their beginnings, their stories, and ours. “You were born in Alabama and Daddy was born in California,” LB recited this morning, and I think about how continuity is a lost concept for them: they haven’t been to the city of my birth in years and to TH’s, only once. We’ve bounced around to three houses here in Sydney, each providing a delineation from the year before it (great for remembering and categorising, not great for familiarity), and are set to find a new one soon. How can they have–in the language of their current favourite video game–a base within all this nonsense?

Then I put them to bed at night.

I no longer remember what it’s like to tuck them in, turn out the light, and tell them goodnight from the doorway as I walk away. Bedtime has, for years now, been a matter of one of us lying down with them until they fall asleep. I take the weeknight shift. and it’s exhausting. It’s also amazing, when I let it be. Because every night, I get to bring them home. And they do the same for me.

We talk about our days, and our feelings. I remind them of who loves them most and best and how wonderfully they were made. They ask a million questions. I speak truth to them, and then at some point, they usually tell me that I’m the best mom in the world.

This is, of course, laughable. There are way too many frozen nuggets and iPads and temper losses in my parenting for their appraisal to run true. And trust me, I beat the shit out of myself for it. Then their tiny voices tell me something that runs counter to all my regrets, and I realise that they are showing me grace, reintroducing me to it all over again. They are telling my story, as I tell theirs. They are bringing me home.

And I stay, until I hear their breathing even out and see their eyelids close, and I think through all the things I’ve done wrong and try to forgive myself as they have forgiven me. They have made me their base. I may question their judgment, but I can’t deny the gift. This gets to be our story.

In the morning, when the sun is rising but they haven’t, I lace up my shoes and work on the next chapter, writing notes for them that tell the truth…fixing them to their iPads, where I know they’ll be found.