It is just after 9 pm on a Monday night and I am the last one up in the house (save a few hermit crabs). While the boys sleep the house comes alive – every room has its own sounds.

My bedroom is a duet of dueling snores – Zach and Buster in sweet harmony. Texas’ room has the gentle purr of his night light stars as the nocturnal hermit crabs tap their shells against the glass of their tank as they wake up for the day.

The playroom is alive with chirping crickets – that we feed the lizards and has a faint rustling of the paper birds hanging from the ceiling that move when the air conditioner comes on – another sound.

Downstairs is the ice maker, occasional toilet noise and kitty feet as they play – awake and on high alert fueled on by the upstairs cricket choir.

Outside is the periodic noise of neighbors rolling their trash and recycling to the curb every few minutes – pick up happens around 6:45 am every Tuesday. I can hear the occasional horn or acceleration from cars and if I open my door I catch the faintest bit of our neighbor’s piano.

These noises are soothing and comfortable. These noises mean home and the status quo. Garbage comes on Tuesday. Zach and the dog snore. Crickets chirp and hermit crabs tick-tick-tick against the glass walls. Texas sleeps under noisy stars and we will have ice tomorrow. All is well.