November 28, 1998
Jam-Packed


They're here.
I woke up this morning, and my apartment is absolutely jam-packed with people I love. (Or at least it FEELS  "jam-packed," considering the miniscule size of the Tree House.)  I wandered around in silence at 7 a.m., looking at their sleeping faces, in turn ...

... Daughter #2, elegantly stretched out on the living room *ouch,* long brown hair spilling over the sofa pillows ... dignified even in sleep ...

... Son #Only, sacked out on the *Auxilliary Ouch,* which we'd dragged out to the dining room so he would stay warm: a little round knot of boy and blankets, snoring obliviously as I tiptoed around him to make coffee ...

... David, looking as silly as six-feet worth of grown man can look sleeping on a bedroom floor, legs poking out of the bottom of a crocheted blue afghan.

I suddenly felt absolutely suffused with joy, and with love for these people ...

... and with relief that my Saturday mornings will never again involve empty chab bottles, or kneeling on bathroom floors vomiting into porcelain, or wondering how to keep my head from flying right off of my shoulders for the rest of the day.

That's about all I have time to write this morning. Soon all of these precious people are going to be waking up and clamoring over the bathroom and the Alpha Bits and the computer ... so I'm going to jump into the shower ahead of them all and get our day started. We have no real plans for this day: we'll probably just drive around and explore the sights in fabulous Oregon City, allowing the Tots and David more chance to get to know each other.  Their assessment so far? Son #Only: "He's acceptable." Daughter #2: "I'm still thinking about it." (Although David did manage to make her laugh so hard at dinner that she snorted Pepsi all over her Kung Pao chicken.)


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