Pumpkin Pulp Fiction
4:30 a.m. Boyo D. gets me up because his covers are 'broken'. This is five-year-old speak for, 'not perfectly straight like they were when you put me to bed.'
4:32-6:00 a.m. I lie awake trying to shut my brain off.
6:01 a.m. Two boyos come into the bedroom and discuss the fact that I am in the room and trying to sleep. Nevertheless, they root around the bed looking for a book. I grumble for them to get out and they do.
6:08 a.m. As I am drifting into sleep, back they come a-rooting.
6:12 a.m. Ditto.
6:20 a.m. Third verse, same as the first.
Sometime before 7:00 a.m. I roar out of bed and blunder into the kitchen. My memory's fuzzy but now there's one less child-lock on a cabinet, an empty but buttered casserole dish, another pan full of freshly-baked cornbread, a pot of stuffing with no recipe for it in sight, a pumpkin pie, and an Oreo cheesecake.
O says I looked and sounded like this:
'Any of you fucking pricks come in my kitchen, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!'
I believe him. I'm running on coffee and Airborne right now.
Storytime will resume after my favorite day of the year.