The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet
I was thrilled with my cool new fridge until 6 o’clock this morning, when Hudson thundered past my bedroom door with an armload of popsicles and ice cream. Guess that bottom freezer drawer wasn’t such a hot idea after all.
And, incidentally, our home has never known the subtle, joyous sound of pitter-pattering little feet. My son is more like a one-boy stampede. Hudson’s eyes open at the crack of dawn (if we’re lucky; otherwise it’s the crack of dark), a pressing agenda registers in his brain, and he leaps out of bed as if shot from a cannon. Then it’s boom-boom-boom-boom down the hall and towards something dangerous/sharp/tasty/forbidden. When the ensuing silence hits, that’s when you know you should be very, very afraid.
