These days, I wake up to a 13lb pork chop, who’s goobery, toothless mouth is wide and smiling, and in the background, a lilting, teensy chant of, “wakey-wakey mommy”, from my 3yr old, the 2nd floor imp. All smooshy baby and toddler glee pile together for our morning snuggle; the baby beaming at the imp, the imp incessantly chattering about nothing and everything. This squish and puff army makes its way downstairs where I routinely shoot espresso to the rising sun and the hind-splash of Sponge Bob jokes. Back to the floor above where the I-must-wear-a-ballgown-in-the-rain daily exchange, and the dress-the-baby-in-jammies-puhlease wars are waged. Later to the floor again above that, to stuff self into still-ill fitting clothes from pre-pregnancy fame. All now contained anatomical pudges descend to that coffee scented level to debate the path out the door and further, into the realm of ‘before lunch’.