My eyes opened to the dulcet notes of a tattletale four year old, though she was talking to her father, not me. It was morning, and Lily was curled up in the crook of my arm, still sleeping. The other side of the bed was empty.
Mentally, I steeled myself for the visage of Anna, applying butter like stage makeup, bits sticking in her hair and oozing out between her fingers. Tim is really great about letting me get a little extra sleep on the weekends but the Type A in me fights against criticizing the differences in our routine. That is, Monday through Friday I get to basically run the house my way, and Satuday and Sunday I must admit that while I might not agree with the sticky children, toys everywhere, TV blaring approach, I love sleep more and Tim is an excellent father, so who cares if Anna has somehow managed to make off with a stick of butter?
I hear Tim talking and slip away from Lily, into the kitchen, where I find this:
A few minutes after that Tim appeared in our room with a plate of French toast, already cut up, and scrambled eggs.
"We wanted to give you a nice morning," he said.
That afternoon it was almost 60 degrees and the girls were absolutely not napping, so I took the older two to the playground, which was swarming with kids, all enjoying a reprieve before winter set back in.
The rest is really better told with pictures.
But we had fun:
And, well, I don't know exactly what Tim and Lily got up to, but she apparently also had a fun afternoon, because she is worn.out.