Every night, right around this time, we hear it. Stomp stomp STOMP STOMP STOMP Click-squeak-slam! STOMP STOMP STOMP.
Stomp stomp STOMP STOMP STOMP Slam- squeak-click! STOMP STOMP STOMP.
It’s Rory, getting up to go to the bathroom, slamming open the bedroom door, then returning and slamming it shut.
She doesn’t need or want help. She feels fully confident in making her own way on this. Doesn’t turn on a light. Her siblings could sleep through anything, and they sleep through this nightly. If anything, this is a good thing.
But it’s astonishingly loud.
We’ve joked about Rory’s any-thing-but-fairy-footfalls from day one. Even at 32 pounds, she moves through the house like a linebacker. Every step echoes. Every door slams, every chair drags and bangs. If she had a drum I think she would carry it everywhere and bang it as she went.
I secretly think that if Rory can’t hear herself move, she’s afraid she isn’t there at all.