The backstory: When I was a kid, my father was the parent assigned wake up duty and, as I recollect, most mornings he would burst into my bedroom with a great deal of enthusiasm. I did not enjoy this. I can vividly recall one cold morning that he brought me a cup of hot cocoa and then placed the steaming mug on the other side of the room, thus forcing me to get up. I was not amused. Most mornings when I go to wake up the boy it's 7 am and I have been awake (and consuming coffee) for the past hour and a half. So it would be fair to say that I'm fully awake. I usually climb the stairs calling his name and generally serving as an annoying mama. And so it was on Thursday morning that I climbed the stairs to find the entire boy buried under the quilt on his bed.
Mama: Wakey-wakey, Taylor McBakey.
The lump in the bed is silent.
Mama: It's time to get up sleepy head.
Mama: Up, up, up.
Finally, he speaks, in a voice that implied he was the grown up and I was the tiresome overly enthusiastic child in the household.
JT: I have a very small patience for you this morning, Mama.