The sun is barely up. The boy is barely up. (But have no doubt, he’s up. Has been for half an hour.) I am up. Since before the boy.
As is my normal Saturday routine, I awoke before everyone else, shut doors and stole quietly through the house to my magic chair. (Not the boy’s door, mind you. If he wakes up to that thing shut, you’d think someone stuffed a puff adder down Henry Jones Jr’s trousers based on all the high pitched wails.)
And then I wait. And I think. (And I check my Angry Birds games, let’s not be silly… Saturday is when the poachers come out and try to beat the scores I’ve worked hard on all week.) I ruminate before I’ve had coffee (because making coffee is loud) and before I’ve turned on Furious George for the toe-headed strep-child.
I wonder what the day will bring. And what I will take from it. And what I will give in return.
And then the screams come.