My kid are playing earthquake with their dollhouse right now. They’re shaking it and flinging it around, and they’ve broken a bunkbed and a window in the process. I’ve scolded them to be careful. I spent four hours building that damn thing.

I overhear Thalia say, “The mom’s birthday was the worst birthday ever because of the earthquake.”

I hear Sage say, “Happy birthday! Let’s all have a party!”

I hear Thalia say, “let’s pretend the brother is really scared because they might all die, so they can hide in this special earthquake room.”

I hear Sage say, “You can’t hide the brother in the teapot because then we will drink them. Hey…this can be a birthday cake!”

I hear Thalia say, “Now I will play music on the piano that sounds like a thunderstorm.”

I hear Sage say, “I am making you some tea. It’s the kids’ kind of tea. Let’s get a gift!”

And then they gift wrap a bathing suit top in an orange cloth napkin, and hand it to Daddy to open it up.

I remember recently reading this amazing post about Twitter and disaster burnout. I wish I could find it. It described something I had written about too–how strange it is that our streams are so schizophrenic, alternating wildly between heartfelt wishes for Japan, quips about our kids, and jokes about pop culture icons. Up down up down.

Maybe that’s totally normal. Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to be doing to keep ourselves sane. Because I see my girls doing it in their own way right this minute.