At 6:00 this morning, my phone rang. My brain, though benedryl-hazed and coherence-impaired due to the ungodly hour somehow managed to recognize the voice of my mother. You know, the woman who gave birth to me and the one who realizes that one of the larger blockaids to my converting was that the local c's of C all met hours earlier than did the Baptist church of my youth. In short, she knows I like to sleep. However:

Mom: "Quiara? I have a surprise for you."
Me: *mmmprhhp*
Mom: "Did I wake you?"
Me: frumph.
Mom: "Good." *sound of phone being passed.*

...

Nephew(!): "Key?"
Me (suddenly awake): "Yes, Doodle?" (Which is, of course, short for Doodlebritches)
Nephew: "I go s'prise for you!"
Me: "You do? What is it?"
...

Nephew: "...I 'on't know... But Brandon [my youngest brother, a.k.a. "The Prodigal"] is fweepin' in my bed."
Me: "He is?"
Nephew: "Uh huh. He snorin'. Like this:" *loud, adorable imitation of Brandon's snore.*
Nephew (again): "Key? You talk to Nana now. I got go play."

-----


Eh, I think he's cute. ^_~ (Stinkin' adorable is the term I use most often, in fact). His maternal grandparents (who are also custodial at this point, but that's a long story) moved to Mississippi a while back. Since my mother continues to live in the God-forsaken land that is Arkansas (as opposed to the far more God-forsaken land that is Mississippi), she doesn't get to see him nearly often enough anymore. And I, living in Tennessee (somewhere between the two on the scale of God-forsaken-ness, I'm sure) hardly see him at all. I think he now believes I live in a telephone.