I was so tired yesterday.
(I blame the car-lag or the travel-logue or the abrupt change from mountain air to desert air or something besides me.)
I yawned most of the way through the day and then last night I started nodding off at 8:30. By nine o'clock I was gone.
David came in and laid on top of me. Disappointed.
"You're going to sleep?"
(Did I ever tell you about the time we were in bed kissing and the bed actually caught fire? This was not one of those times.)
I got up momentarily to put the croissants in the oven for the next morning, but I set the oven 100 degrees higher than I should have. An easy to mistake to make when you're sleep walking.
The fire alarm went off early this morning.
Good morning, it said.
But I just rolled over and told David that someone was whistling in my dream. And then went back to sleep.
David got up, put the fire out, and sent Caleb on is way, with a prayer and a kiss and a charcoal croissant.
I am practically Martha Stewart.