just a grumpy Lenae.

My older boys, they're waking up before 7 now. It makes me want to cry, but instead I dutifully drag myself out of bed and escort them to the living room. I maybe cast one brief, jealous glance at the baby, who is warm and bundled and asleep. ("Lucky," I mutter to myself.)

If they notice my crankiness, the big boys certainly aren't bothered or deterred by it. "Hi, Mama!" Gabriel says at least 20 times before he's satisfied that I've returned the greeting enthusiastically enough. Eli hovers around my legs, whining for milk and breakfast.

Soon, we are all settled in various places of comfort. I am stationed on one end of the couch, my favorite blanket tucked around my legs and a mug of peppermint tea nearby. "This is definitely blog material," I laugh to myself, noting my frizzy hair; the fact that the entry way is barely lit by the sun but my mischievous 21-month-old is already scattering crayons and markers all over the floor; and the pile of dishes from our cookie-making last night sitting like a jury summons on the kitchen counter.

Self-pity, however, dies a quick death in this house. A few sips of tea later and Eli catches me staring at him as he stands by the Christmas tree, the array of miniature lights glowing against his chubby cheeks. He rewards me with giggles and squeals and a silly jump onto my lap. My oldest is busy reading a book, but he lets me tousle his hair and kiss the top of his head. Eventually they ditch me to convene in the playroom, where I can hear their little voices discussing how to properly putt a golf ball, or scale the computer desk without her hearing you.

We've got the whole day ahead of us.