It's Sunday morning. I shuffle out of Furnald, driven from my bed by the consoling call of a cup of coffee. I have barely enough physical energy to adjust to whatever freak 20-degree weather change occurred during the night—barely enough mental energy to start arranging my to-do list into the least painful order possible.
And then—without a whiff of caffeine—my morning gets a little cheerier.
It's surprising (commendable, even) that I manage to swerve around the three-year-old-boy brandishing a stick in his hand and running with a tottery ferocity that clearly indicates he has the right of way. And that I remember to sidestep a teetering chain of toddlers clutching each other's waists, still a few years young to understand cooties or start imposing Freudian theories into their picture books.
