I’m dreaming that I’m a mountain climber, high above the clouds when my less-than-a-year-old daughter wakes me up, literally for the eighth time in one night. I am beyond tired and wonder how I will physically get out of my bed, yet alone get the brood together and out the door. My only saving grace is that my preschooler is not up yet, so I devise a plan to lie in the bed for at least twenty more minutes while baby girl crawls around me. My mind slowly wakes up to the sound of pouring rain on my windows and thoughts about clothing options for the day (is my silk cardigan still at the dry cleaners?)  Just as I think this, I hear the morning cry: “Mommy Blackbird!”   

Yes, you heard that right.  My son’s new thing this week is to hide under his blanket (his egg) and pretend he is a baby blackbird. I reply with a hearty “tweet-tweet” and put the safety gate up on the stairs so my daughter doesn’t crawl down them and walk into his room to flick on the light (I feel like crawling myself at this moment.)

"Hi Baby Blackbird” I say as I go towards his bed. He stops me.

“No, you don’t come into my egg. You stay right there Mommy Blackbird, right there. You watch me hatch.”

 Okay. I think about coffee and wonder if my husband made it before he left for work.

 “Tweet tweet” he says under his fleece blanket. “Can you see me Mommy Blackbird?”

 “Yes I see you! I see your little wing!”

 “Mommy Blackbird you come into my egg now and hide with me?”

Sure. So despite the rain and baby girl’s full diaper and the coffee that awaits me, I crawl into the darkness with him and we start the day tweeting together.