Good Morning, Neighborhood!

Five-thirty. That's what the clock read this morning when he got up. And being as it was that early nearly every morning for the past week, I'm reaching the Too Tired To Care point. This is not a good point to reach when you've got to be responsible for supervising the 5:30 party.

I lay in bed with my eyes closed and my ears open. As long as I could hear him, I knew pretty much what room he was in and what he was doing. No fridge doors were opened, no mirowaves were operated, the washer and dryer were untouched. And then I heard the door.

Darn.

But I could still hear him, which meant that he was either in the drive or on the patio. That was okay, right? (I am Mother of the Year at this hour of the morning, for sure.) As long as I could hear him, he was close enough to not be in trouble. And boy-howdy could I hear him. He wasn't singing (which is loud - no, wait, it's L-O-U-D) but he was just as loud, which means that he was either mad about something or excited about something. From the tone I gathered it was excitement.

But it went on. And on. And it was so loud. But I could hear him so I pretended that I could still lay in bed and rest. Except I couldn't because he was LOUD. And I looked at the clock at it said 5:45, and something in my very tired brain poked me and whispered, "the neighbors can hear that, too." So that's when I finally realized that, as the supervisor of the 5:45 party, I should get out of bed and actually supervise.

The boy was wearing a park ranger hat, boxing gloves, and cowboy boots. It looked like he was either directing traffic or an orchestra. And he was loudly telling someone something. I'd love a glimpse into his wee mind to know what he's doing. He's a creative little genius, I'm sure of it.

So later that day I was talking to my dad (who is one of our neighbors) and he said he heard Micah early in the morning. Mind you, living in the country, we have 4 acres of land all to ourselves. That means that neighbors aren't exactly next door. My parents are the closest, but dad wasn't home. No, he was walking his dogs on the Back 40, another few acres away. (Dad is a retired dairy farmer. A lifetime of getting up to milk cows at 5:30 isn't going to stop just because you're retired.)

Yeh, the neighbors love us. I'm sure of it.