There are five teenaged bodies asleep in my living room, on couches, on the floor, in the various spooned and spreadeagled poses in which they drifted off after watching Paranormal Activity last night. I guess they were too scared to separate into bedrooms and turn out the lights. It was my husband who turned out the lights and turned off the TV at six this morning.
Or maybe they just love being a jumble of limbs and blankets and messy hair, all of them loath to leave the party in case they miss something. My daughter, the high schooler in the bunch, enjoys being a part of all this. (Plus she was thrilled last night when my niece and my son's friend told her that he talks about her all the time at college, saying how cool she is and how much he misses her. He denied it of course!)
To add to the atmosphere, it is a rainy, grey, blustery morning in New York City. The wind is more than gusty, it's almost gale force. Ourside my window, the trees are flailing furiously, swaying and bowing and circling way too much for comfort.
I hear the teenagers stirring. My husband is making scrambled eggs and spicy chicken sausages for breakfast. I think he enjoys this as much as I do.