thursday morning

She always wakes up on time to kiss her big brother and sister goodbye when they head off for school.

But first she shows off how well she can push herself up, wonders about her bedhead, and is so completely soft, warm, rosy, and kissable that I can hardly crawl out of bed.

I hear the ritual whines of "I don't waaaannnnaaa go to school" from this one, who perks up after a bite to eat. We wrestle through the ritual hair brushing, the ritual refusal of whatever clothes I picked out of the clean laundry pile last night, and the ritual reminder not to give her the "hot" toothpaste. Dressed, brushed, teeth cleaned, she's excited to head out the door. But first, she winds herself in "mommy's blankie" and growls at anyone who comes near.

He talks to his beloved baby sister as he waits for his toast to pop, and tries to ignore the bickering that has already begun at the kitchen table. He'll eat, then wander around looking for his Star Wars figures instead of brushing his teeth and getting dressed, until I play my prescribed role and say my line: "If you don't get ready now you won't be taking any figures to school with you!!" He knows I'm bluffing. I've got a soft spot for a kid who loves Han Solo.

In a flurry of coat-layering (it's below 0 degrees here first thing in the morning, then soars into the teens by noon), spit-washes, double-checking of backpacks, and hurried kisses, they're off down the lane way.

I'm left with my two littlest girls. The one who woke me up an hour ago is ready for her first nap in the sling, and the other wants me to cuddle in to watch Tinkerbell with her. My drop spindle beckons, abandoned before I even got my hands on it last night when the baby woke up just as I sat down.

Coffee in hand, baby in sling, drop spindle in the other hand, I'll say yes. Just this once.