Our home is a small split level. The upstairs is 6 stairs up from the main level and our bedroom is 6 stairs down. Every evening, I head up those 6 stairs to tuck in the girls and then take a shower. I go back down the stairs to the living room to sit by M’s chair where we hang out before he goes up to take his shower, which doesn’t take long at all.
As soon as M heads for those 6 stairs for his shower, I pick up the last things that need tidying, then head to our room down 6 stairs. Once I get there, I may sit or lie on the bed, read for a minute, or fidget about the room. I can hear M turn off the shower, if I’m paying attention. I can hear him walking around above me, if I’m aware. I’m able to hear the bathroom door open and the sound of the bathroom fan get louder for a second before he flips off the switch and turns toward the stairs, if I listen. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Doesn’t matter, really, because I usually keep doing whatever I was doing. Until.
About 2 seconds later his foot hits the first of those 6 stairs down to the main level. I know there’s only 5 left, then he’ll turn the corner and make fast work of the 6 stairs down to me……THAT’S when I get my ass moving. I hurry to turn and flip on the lamp on the nightstand if I haven’t already, which is usually. If I’d been chilly, I quickly untie and fling off my robe. I scoot down to or hop onto the end of the bed and kneel for him before he makes it all the way down.
Because that’s the rule. I need to have the lamp on and be kneeling and waiting when he enters the room.
Yesterday evening, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, M sauntered over to me with his head cocked to the side, eyes playfully searing, and a grin on his face. Just as I was expected to be, I was kneeling on the edge of the bed, the edge I’d made it to with 3 stairs to spare, thank you very much. Still grinning, he looked me in the eyes and said, “I love to hear you scurrying.” And I blushed! “You love to hear me scurrying?,” I asked, feeling instantly smaller. “Yeah, I love to listen to you scurry around as I’m coming down the stairs,” he reiterated again, enveloping me in a hug, both of us giggling.
As I laid there in his arms trying to sleep, that phrase he spoke tumbled around in my head for over an hour. M loves to listen to me scurry around to prepare as he’s descending the stairs. He loves knowing that there’s this bit of ornery in me that keeps me from just preparing when I get down there and kneeling the entire time and waiting patiently. He loves to listen to the sound of me stopping whatever I wanted to do and hurrying to please him, to follow his rule.
M loves that I will scurry, for him. I love that he loves my scurrying.