Thursday, June 3, 2010

5 a.m. Returns

Chicken Little typically appears at my bedside between 5 and 5:30 a.m. “Mommy!” she says exuberantly, as if she herself has already had several cups of coffee and can’t understand my languor. “Is it wake-up time?”

I always have a hard time answering this question. Primarily, because I am in a coma.

But also because no, of course it isn’t wake-up time, it’s clearly and obviously still sleeping and dreaming-of-a-Hawaiian-beach time.

But on the other hand, yes, simply the arrival of this small person grinning and shaking her mop of crumpled white-blonde hair and boinging up and down like a cross between Jack Nicholson in The Shining and Tigger means that, by definition, it’s wake-up time.

Usually I just grunt and haul her into bed next to me with hopes that she’ll go back to sleep, or at least allow me to lay there like a drunken sailor for five more minutes.

This morning she curled up under my arm. “We picked our mommy and daddy at the store,” she announced matter-of-factly. “We said: not that one, not that one, not that one. Yes, you. And, you.” She punctuated these last two statements with tiny jabs at my arm.

“Ummm,” I murmured. “We are so lucky.”

“And you and daddy picked us at the store. You said: not that one, not that one, not that one. Oh yes, THAT one.”

“Mmmm.” I was starting to come to. “Boo boo,” which is what we’ve called her since she was little-bitty, “why did you pick me?”

She put her cheek to my chest. “Because you have the softest, warmest skin in the whole world.”


  1. Awwww, all that moisturizing paid off!

  2. It took me a minute to get that, actually.


  3. ...I was just telling someone the other day that growing up on the Oregon Coast, and therefore never getting a suntan until I was 20 and had moved away, was probably good for the aging process...