The pitter-patter of little feet...

...takes on wholly negative associations when you hear it approaching a little before 6:00 a.m., after an already unsatisfactory night of sleep.

Naturally, I hit the floor running, lest the smallest one--who cannot pitter-patter, but makes up for it in other ways--should be awakened. An odd sight met my eyes. Lewis, who seemed beset by that temporary mania which afflicts all those awakened ungently from their sleep ("Fire?! What fire?? Where?!") was jogging in place by the door, with the evident desire of entering the hallway. Inge, obviously more awake, was preventing him sheepdog style. The presence of a clearly irate parent, moving like a freight train, prompted the poor fellow to break into a flood of weeping, sure he was going to be in trouble somehow. I ruled quickly: Back to bed, back to bed now. Whereat Inge burst into tears, thus identifying herself as the mastermind behind this whole early morning escapade; and Lewis, chuckling with relief, ran back to his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Kids.