I’m comfortable.

In my bed.

Gah. I’ve seen this Mickey Mouse cartoon so many times- I know each line word for word.

The three year old is jumping… ON MY BED… and I’ve given him the look 75 billion and a half times.

He is a chatterbox, not just today, but every morning. He even talks in his sleep-

When he isn’t snoring-

What happened to the cute little breaths he took as a baby? These are near grown man sounds that escape his sleeping lips.

And when he realizes I haven’t responded to his words with whatever he has deemed appropriate or with nothing at all, he quietly reminds himself that I am working.

And it is a blissful 2.5 seconds of quiet.

Ah, but it is a continuous circle that cannot be broken or interrupted or muted or paused.

Maybe a walk is what I need after all.

Fresh air would be great, a stimulating conversation with nature is sure to stimulate brain cells that beg to take one or two more winks.

Guess, I will put on clothes and go for a walk…

The three year old has spies everywhere and I will not escape this time unseen.

I don’t really like clothes, anyway.

Besides, I’m quite comfortable.

In my bed.

But you enjoy the scenery.

And if you hear an incessant banging from a window as you pass by-

Don’t worry, it is just the three year old wishing you a happy, sunshiny day.

Wave, smile and just keep walking.

Otherwise, you’ll be entrapped in a conversation with a three year old and absolutely no way out.

Then I will be forced to leave my cocoon of comfort and warmth-

You’ll see my t shirt, rumpled and wrinkled and if the angle is right, you might even see some thigh connected to a panty that is anything but sexy.

But, I digress. And that isn’t how we make any progress.

Yes, a walk would indeed be best.

Gets the blood flowing, you know?

But.

I am comfortable.

In my bed.