This morning, the intermediate boys (ages 5 and 8) are the first to rise, as usual, one in his t-shirt and underpants, the other in pants and no shirt, both skin and bones, both unusually perky, with the hair on their crowns puffed into cones from sleep. They look like mushroom caps, and smell about the same. It's time to brush those big teeth in their smiling little mouths.
Currently, they are piling up blankets and each making their own 'cozy nest.' Both my girls, who bookend them, have liked to nurse and then push away from me to go back to their cribs and sleep without the problem of other bodies close to them radiating heat. But the boys were such willing little hot potatoes who nursed interminably, and when they could not succeed at crawling back into the womb, would be content with taking possession of one of my arms or legs.
|(I am sorry for hitting you with a broom. It probably hurt you. You now know what hating people is really like.)|
|(I feel bad that I hit you. I could see that it hurt you and it made me feel bad before I sped off. I had to stand in the corner, and I guess it served me right. Signed, with sincerity)|