Sunday Morning Coming Down

One of my clearest memories from childhood (when my parents were still the happiest couple in town ) is the Sunday morning tradition. I don't know why or how but for some reason as a child I was a very early riser. On Sunday mornings, my sister and I would inevitably wake up before out parents. (before the sun was all the way up usually) Our mission was always the same, to stealthily make our way into our parents' room and across the wide expanse of floor without waking them. If they weren't jumped on while they were still asleep and violently rousted, we had failed. For some reason on Sundays this was okay. There were no scowls or scoldings. There were kisses and laughter. Much tickling and bulldozing would ensue. I recently reminded my Daddy of his bulldozing days and he seemed to think that he could still do it. I am not so sure, I have seen him on the floor with the kids and although I am impressed by the effort, the ruthless bulldozer of the days of yore is nowhere in sight. I am afraid that over the years he may have acquired a bit of rust damage. After we would play for what seemed like forever, we would all go back to sleep. Piled in their bed together. That was the only time that they let us sleep with them and I remember loving every second of it.
I am happy to tell you that the Sunday morning tradition has not ended with my parents marriage. My bedroom suit is the same bedroom suit that my parents had back then, and apparently the Sunday morning tradition is some kind of magic spell that is attached to the furniture.
It never fails, on Sunday mornings I am jerked awake by the feeling of Super Z's knee in my stomach. And although on any other day that would be enough for me to turn into evil grouchy Serina, on Sundays that doesn't happen. On Sundays, I pull him into position and blow on his belly as hard as I can, eliciting ear splitting laughter that can raise the dead, aka Randy, aka Bulldozer 2. Shortly after the bulldozer is kicking into gear Princess H will let us know via our complicated electronic monitoring system that the prisoner of the crib is also ready to be dozed, tickled, and otherwise tortured into eliciting a million giggles. After about an hour of this everyone will pass out...mostly on top of me. And I will lay there uncomfortable and sweating and as happy as I have ever been.