Mama. Mama. (poke) Mama. (poke poke) It's time to get up. Can we go downstairs?
Yes, I suppose we *can*, but will we? Of course we will. And we do.
The dishwasher wants to be unloaded. The French Press is begging to be useful. Honest, it begs me. The laundry wants to be folded. The laundry wants to be put away (or does it? One can never be quite sure about that.) The cat wants to be let in. The other cat wants to be let out, but of course not at the same time. The short people come trip-trapping down the stairs, smelling of sweat and sleep and a desperate need for a serious toothbrushing, but that will come. The short people want to be fed. And attended to, and dressed and played with. The chickens want to be fed, and let out of the pen to roam the yard. The lawn wants to be mowed, the garden wants to be weeded.
And so I oblige them.