In our house lately, the morning scene goes something like this:
6:35am Alarm goes off. I press "snooze".
6:45am Alarm goes off. I press "snooze". Somewhere in the house Things 4 and 5 start to stir (or, alternately, they have been up since 5:30am and every piece of Playmobil, Lego and Clicks that I own are on the floor of their bedroom).
6:55am Alarm goes off, and although I press "snooze", I am now slightly alive and have managed to wipe the drool off my face.
7:05am Alarm goes off, I peel myself out of bed and start to wake up older kids. Which, incidentally, if you have older kids, you realize that this task may just be harder than moving mountains.
They slowly trickle into my room making Night of the Living Dead look good. Scratchy voices, bedraggled bed heads, it truly is pathetic.
"OY! My head! It's killing! A Mirgraine! OW!"
"My throat! It's killing! I can't move!"
"I'm so tired!" (tears) "Why can't you understand how tired I am?"
Or the ones that just lie forlornly on my bed, too sick/tired/overall nebach to even make a case for themselves.
And most days I don't buy it. Because on those days that I do, like today for example, we witness true miracles right here in Nachal Tzeilim in Ramat Beit Shemesh.
It's called the 8:00am Miracle. After those children who have lost the "Can I Please Stay Home" fight, are bundled off and leave the house, the door barely closes, and those who have been slyly victorious are suddenly, miraculously, without any real explanation...CURED!! It's a MIRACLE! HALLELU-A!