If you want to know what chaos sounds like, come to our house on a Sunday morning.

It starts around 6:45am — always earlier than I want — with Goni’s bare feet slapping down the hallway. She’s seven, and she has no concept of sleeping in. Yarden follows ten minutes later, slower, clutching his stuffed dinosaur like it’s a diplomatic envoy sent to negotiate breakfast.

Yoni makes pancakes. This is non-negotiable. It’s been his Sunday ritual since before the kids were born, and he takes it seriously — a different recipe each week, a small notebook where he rates them. Last week’s was banana-oat with a dash of cinnamon. “A solid 7.5,” he declared, to which Goni replied, “I’d give it a 3.” She’s a tough critic.

After breakfast, we draw. All four of us, at the kitchen table, with the big box of colored pencils I keep on the shelf. Goni draws horses — always horses. Yarden draws something he describes as “a robot but also a dragon but also a car.” I sketch whatever catches my eye: the light coming through the curtain, Yoni’s hands around his coffee mug, the chaos of pencils scattered across the table.

These mornings are nothing special. That’s the point. They’re ordinary, repetitive, unremarkable — and they are the best hours of my week.

Someone once told me that the secret to happiness isn’t the big moments, it’s learning to notice the small ones. I think about that on Sunday mornings, when the kitchen smells like pancakes and the kids are arguing about whose turn it is to pick the music. I don’t want to forget any of it.

So I draw it. And now I’m writing it down too.