On five out of seven mornings, Lea opens her door, navigates her way across the hall, opens our door, and arrives on my side of the bed with her mother lode: one Dora the Explorer pillow, three (always three) books, and her "baby," which is female but which she nevertheless named "Lolo." The bed is taller than she is, so she launches each of these items overhand using my head as her primary target. I don't so much mind the pillow hitting me, but when she lands Goodnight Moon across the non-existent bridge of my Filipino nose, I surrender and pull her up on the bed.
That's all she wants, really. I often try to palm her off on the spousal unit, but she's all about mama, mama, mama in the morning. And she's ridiculously sentimental. She just lays her head on my chest, stares at me like I alone invented chocolate chip cookies, and runs her fingers all over my face. "Nice lips!" she'll say. Or, "Why do you have brown eyes?"
Sunday morning, after this little face navigation exercise, I said, "You're a sweet girl, Lea."
And she said, "I are?"
Too sleepy to rap her knuckles with a wooden ruler and correct her, I just said, "Yes. You...am."
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