Every morning a giant awakes with a slow, lazy stretch of the limbs that begin to gather speed.
That’s us. Our family. Every morning at six o’clock “Amore” wakes up, sleepily kisses me good morning and begins her day.
Shortly I go to the boy’s room and spend five minutes or so trying to wake them up; then the girls’ room.
As I hug V., her dog, a jealous fiend, tries to squeeze in between our arms. V. laughs as she tightens her arms round my neck, knowing full well I am about to get a slobbering gush of foul breath straight into my face.
Another round of hugs to E. and I am now running late.
“Amore” is in the kitchen doing her things with breakfast and reminding us all to make our beds, let the dog out, pick up the laundry, brush up, get dressed and hurry up.
The giant is picking up speed as I chase one of my socks that, for the umpteenth time, is caught in the jaws of the tiny hound. Things get worse as everyone jumps in to help and we all end up in a rude tangle of arms and legs.
Someone, me, shouts out in pretend rage, as my face is squashed against the carpet. Strange and indistinct noises slip out. The worst part is the soothing kisses I receive on my bald spot, and the cootchie-coo sounds I hear. To top it all, my youngest starts bouncing off my middle; this causes an immediate reaction in the form of further strange noises. This usually untangles us in a hurry.
Breakfast is over very quickly and we rush out of the house. The giant is leaving home.
The family is ready to take on the whole world as we leave with a smile on our faces, a song on our lips and the memory of another wake up call in our hearts.