Today dawned way too soon. I woke up entangled in the sweaty bodies of my two daughters - my oldest had her nose pressed against my scalp and an arm and a leg thrown over me, and my youngest was snuggled into my chest, her thumb still resting inside her mouth.

I thought, hey! The boy slept in his own bed all night! Far out!

A hazy memory surfaced - no, he was in my bed for a while. Where is he? From the kitchen, I heard "oof" and the shuffling of pajama feet on the floor. Oh, great. What is he getting into?

I could have gotten up and investigated, but a glance at the clock told me I still had a few minutes to rest before the fun started, and I opted to be in denial for a while.

Suddenly, the hall light flicked on. Shadowed against the bright light of the doorway, my son came through the door holding our broom aloft, bristles towards the ceiling. A momentary panic set in...was he coming to bludgeon me - and even if that wasn't the intent, would I get a broom to the head to start my day?

He crowed "Mommy! I can almost touch the ceiling!" (Whew! He's not avenging the wrongs I have dealt him!)

"Oh, cool. But can you put the broom down?" He was waving it near the bed, and both sisters were awake and looking concerned.

"Shu-wah," said my son, and put the bristles on the windowsill and rested the handle on the mattress. "Mommy, I'm thirsty. Can you get me a drink?"

"Shu-wah," I said, and pulled myself gently free of the girls. As I slid out from under the covers and stood upright, my son said "Now, LIMBO! How low can you go? Hey! How low can you go? Hey!"

And you know what? I still got it, baby. I shimmied under that broom and finished with a flourish.