I lay in bed this morning remembering how it used to be. From the time my daughter could walk or crawl out of her crib, she was an early riser. I could hear the patter of her footed pajamas as she approached my side of the bed, usually with a book in hand. We would snuggle together and I would read one book, or a stack of books, doing all the different voices for the characters. The morning would usually end with a game where she would hide under the covers.
A muffled voice from under the covers would say, “I’m the mailman and you have a package.”
“I didn’t order a package. I wonder what’s inside.” I would poke the lump under the covers which would erupt in a squeal of giggles. We would progress through a series of questions and answers until we discovered what was in the package, which was usually alive, came from the animal kingdom and was hungry. I would have to take a turn and eventually the morning would reach a reasonable hour and I would make her favorite Sunday breakfast: waffles.
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