On weekends, she comes into my room as soon as she wakes--somewhere between 6:07 and 6:42a.m.--special blankie and at least two furry friends in tow.

Because she's one of those people who is immediately hungry, I gather supplies--water and a dish of chubby squares (not to be confused with skinny squares--flash in the pan they were)--the night before.

With as little movement as possible, I peel the covers down on the other side of the bed as she clambers over me, knees and elbows leading the charge.

I feign sleep until a voice, warm and breathy, shout-whispers in my ear: "Squuuuuaaaaaaares."

Since swatting at it like a gnat just makes it louder and more frequent, I surrender.

Lights go on, extra pillows prop us up, and I hand Darth Vader her cereal while I flip to the hologram butterfly bookmark in our chapter book.

My gummy contacts (that I've slept in seven days straight despite knowing better) turn out to be no match for The Wind in the Willow's bombastic writing.

There's one sentence that's 231 words long.

Clearly, Mr. Grahame never had to read his work aloud at dawn over the crunching of chubby squares.