Easy Like Sunday Morning

Warm.

Warm and nice and safe. And happy.

It is 10 o'clock in the morning. My husband and I have slept in.

Our bed is comfy. His arm is cuddling me. We snuggle. It is Sunday. Our eleven year old twins are playing video games happily in the next room. We have things to do, but no firm commitments until 6pm tonight.The dog has been hanging with the twins, but is now snoring peacefully at the foot of the bed

GRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

With a shriek that could only be described as a banshee high on meth, Twin A throws the door open, runs into the room, and leaps in between us.

Thank god we are both wearing pajamas.

“Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy! I am here to join you!”

He then leaps under the covers (ripping them off of me), let’s out a maniacal laugh, and hugs us both.

Then he takes my semi-unconscious hand and my husband’s hand and forces us to thumb wrestle.

We ask him to stop.

Then he throws up the covers (ripping them off of me, again) and encourages the dog to join us. He does.

Then my son giggles again and wiggles like crazy. He rolls over onto my hair and leans on his elbow…thereby pinning my head to the pillow and causing me to let out a shriek.

All the while this is going on, he is chattering happily and quite articulately about the video game (Injustice), the Christmas candy that he and his brother unearthed in the kitchen, when we are going to put up the Christmas lights, and Batman.

Then Happy Mouth jumps straight up into the air, runs into the next room, and slams the door behind him.

“What was that?” I mutter groggily.

“A tornado?” My husband suggests.

We hear our other son yell at the top of his lungs, “QUIT IT! DO NOT THROW A BLANKET OVER MY HEAD AND BLIND ME WHILE I AM PLAYING INJUSTICE, YOU MORON!” Based on what I can tell, they are now chasing each other through the house.

Possibly with large sticks.

Twin A comes back in, makes a flying leap, and is once again between us.

Now he is poking my fingernails into his father’s arm while the two of us lay there, in a semi-comatose state.

He doesn’t realize that we spent five years trying to get pregnant. He doesn’t understand the doctor’s visits, and the injections, and the miscarriages, and the medications, and the prayers and the tears and the enormous expense of eleven years ago.

Now he is putting his finger in my nose.

“Yes! Finally I beat it!” His brother yells from the video game. “In your face, Joker!”

The one in our bed has started tickling my husband’s armpits.

I slip away to the bathroom. When I come back, the kid is shrieking with delight, and my husband is begging him to stop. The dog is jumping and barking and wagging his tail.

I throw the child and dog out, and crawl back into bed.

My husband puts his arm around me and says, “Pretty soon, he won’t do this any more. We had better enjoy it.”

I know.