"His name's Truman," Timmy grumbled sleepily, rubbing away the sandman's dust.
"Truman is his first name. He's Truman Frump." I looked at the beleaguered bear in his one good eye. "And did you have a nice night's sleep, Mr. Truman Frump?"
"Mom," cried Timmy, in a mock wail. "How about saying, Good morning to me too?"
I squinted at him. "Oh, yes. I remember you. You're Timmy, Mr. Frump's people-friend. How are you this fine morning, Timmy?"
"Terrible."
"How come?" I asked, sitting up on the side of the bed and pulling him into a hug.
"Because I'm hungry and I'm too sleepy to go downstairs to breakfast alone, and," he added, "Karen is still snoring."
"Your big sister doesn't snore," I said, in mock surprise.
"She does too, 'specially when she sleeps on her back. I can hear her all the way to my room."
"Let's see if I can help," I answered, reaching for my robe. I stood, slipped into its flannel warmness and lifted my new found almost-five-year-old son up in my arms. Paul rolled over, kissed Timmy and plodded off to the shower. Timmy still smelled of soap and powder from last night's bath as I snuggled him to my cheek and we went downstairs together.
"Are you going to your store today?" Timmy asked as he climbed up on a kitchen stool.
"No, Mrs. Peck and Cathy are working."
"What are we doing?"
"Your father is flying to Chicago, you've got a full day trip to New Hampshire with your class and Karen has a half day of summer school. I'm going to do laundry and be here when the cleaning ladies come. First I'm cooking pancakes for your dad's going away breakfast. We better hurry if you want some too. Your bus comes by before long."
Timmy drank a glass of orange juice as I rummaged about until I found an appropriate bowl and utensil, and began to mix pancakes.
Sister Karen stood at the kitchen door, trying to look disgusted with life while peeking at the preparations I was mixing. I sensed one of her moods.
Karen's moods swing in up and down fashion, though, thankfully she was bright and cheery far more often than when she was blue. When the blue moods arrived they came in like a desert rain, infrequent but intense. I wondered if the night dreams were the cause of her grouchy spells. Sometimes in the darkest hours I'd hear her thrashing around, fighting demons that periodically returned. When I'd go in her room, she'd quickly feign sleep and refuse to discuss them.
She moved to the counter and helped me mix the batter, then drop it on the sizzling grill. I thanked her but she barely mumbled a reply.