I swear that my two oldest daughters' internal clocks are rigged. There must be some malfunctioning cerebral mechanism that forces them cast off slumber and commence fully-alert conversation as soon as the clock strikes 6:20 in the morning.
Yesterday, Reese was the first one in my room. She approached the side of my bed, leaned in closely, and whispered in that louder-than-regular-talking whisper in which children excel, "Mom! Is it really true that our national bird is an eagle?"
Are you serious? This is the question that couldn't wait until after breakfast?
Brooke stumbled in next, climbed onto the nightstand, and clumsily flopped beside me. I pulled the covers over her. "I still have all my fingers. Look," she said as she swept her hands back and forth in front of my eyes. "My fingers are all still on my hands."
Well, that's a relief.
What must these girls dream about to start their days this way?
I don't often remember my dreams upon waking, but after staying up late to work this past weekend I dreamed that I had been grading essays and commenting on them with a purple colored pencil. If I got all Freudian on you, I bet I could concoct some deeper interpretation about my inner struggles to balance my home and work responsibilities, blah, blah, blah.
But national birds? And fingers still being attached? I have no interpretations for that.