Somewhere in small-town Maritime Canada there's a family of bright-eyed bushy-tailed chirping morning people who are wondering why their children are slugs.
Is it the dawn light waking them? The click of the furnace coming on? The dog turning over? Whatever it is, B and I are becoming accustomed to having company in bed with us, arriving sometime between 3 and 6 am.
Their styles are different. Rosey likes to slip in, clutching her blankie, and scootch herself under B's arm. If B wakes up, she'll flash him a smile (oh, he's putty in her paws, that one) and coo 'Go back to sleep, Daddy. I snuggle with you for awhile.'
Cass will leap onto the bed and announce (since by then he has an audience) that he had a bad dream (or he heard a noise. Or he missed us. Or isn't it time to get up yet? Or he thought Rosey was in here. What are we doing today, Mommy?) and lie spread-eagled over both our legs, hog all the covers, and talk until we all get up.
I'm trying hard to enjoy the moment (they'll be big soon, and I'll miss this, right??) but my dependence on coffee is becoming a real problem and.....
I am a grouch in the mornings. I confess.
There are days I am happy to see the sun. Days I leap out of bed and twinkle a happy tune.
Those days, alas, are are when I wake up by myself.
I'm not at my best when confronted first thing by a four-point question about superheroes and how they could possibly make a giant tunnel to the sea so Cass could float a boat to Halifax, and bring back the Discovery Centre so he could go there everyday and....
by this point I'm up.