They run screaming around the room. In circles, shrieking and squealing and chasing and tackling. The baby stands, wisely, out of the way, safe behind the fortress that is the purple velvet chair. The wail of a clarinet joins in the fray; Daffy Duck and Porky Pig squabble and bash each other with clubs. And the short people stand still for a brief second, then fall down laughing. There is nothing as funny as gratuitous beatings for comedy's sake.
Popcorn for breakfast, and hot tea. Books have been read, stories told. The littlest little crawls into my lap, feeling better but still not good. His face tells the tale of a sneaky chocolate chip cookie, and if it weren't for the germs, I'd relish a bittersweet chocolate kiss.
Yes it was, no it wasn't. Don't step on my head. Bathroom time. Don't play without me.
Mugs of soup and leftover meatloaf sandwiches with mayo and mustard, more tea and an afternoon-long game of Monopoly are on the horizon. A chicken sits in the kitchen sink and contemplates its future.
The natives clamor for Captain Underpants and my reverie is broken.