Nearly every morning these days I wake up to the sound of little feet. I can hear them coming through the living room, scratching on the carpet, practically prancing with energy and excitement at a new day.
It’s our little Abra, and she comes into our bedroom, climbs up up up into our tall bed and plops down between the sleeping form of her mother and the barely awake lump that is her father.
“Good morning, Doodle,” I say.
“I’m hungee,” she always says. Those are the first two words out of her mouth. But this morning our conversation went like this (just remember that wherever Abra says a word with an “s,” it comes out sounding like sch-, like Sid from Ice Age):
Abra: “Get me schomething to eat!”
She lays her head down on my belly and puts her feet in Maile’s face.
Me: “Hey, don’t be so bossy!”
(My stomach growls, for which her ears have a front row seat).
Abra: “Your body’sch making schounds. You’re hungee, too.”
Me: “Okay, what do you want to eat?”
Abra: “Chocolate food.”
Me: “Seriously, what do you want to eat?”
Abra: “Schomething schugary?”
Something sugary. I shake my head in disbelief, snatch her up and carry her into the kitchen under my arm, like a football.