I've been sleeping like the dead the last couple of weeks. The return of spring, and the rude slap of daylight savings time have made me greedy about my time under the covers. I struggle to the surface each morning, feeling as though my body is wrapped tightly in cobwebs.

My oldest daughter, she who gave up naps at 15 months old, she who sees no need for rest at all, ever, has become a creature of the comforter as the dawn approaches, too. My other two children still spring out of bed as soon as my husband's alarm goes off, and dance up and down the hall with their chipper voices and agile bodies. My oldest, however, yanks the blanket over her head and burrows deep into her pillow, fighting to get a few more minutes of sleep.

As annoying as it can be to have to wake her repeatedly, and put up with her moods in the morning, it is also a happy thing for me. Finally, this child of mine is demonstrating that she shares my genetics. Poor thing. But still! She's been rather unlike me all these eight years, and I've found myself remarking how like her father, her aunt, her grandmothers she is. But this heavy morning sleeping thing - that is all me.

For sure, there are other similarities. Our booming, deep voices. Our love of sweets and horses. Our artistic abilities, and utter lack of follow-through with our art projects. I see those things, and I see my influence. Somehow, seeing her dreaming in those last minutes before she wakes, I know her. I know exactly what it feels like to be pulled from a deep slumber, reluctantly leaving the vivid dreams of early morning behind. It makes me cranky, too. I know how it feels to leave behind the cobwebs and find yourself squinting against the too-bright light of the morning.

I stumbled around bleary-eyed this morning, nudging children towards our hour of departure for school. My daughter's face was puffy, mouth turned down into a pretty pout as she contemplated her breakfast options. I reached my arms out to her and pulled her close.

"Were you having a good dream?" I whispered.
"You have no idea how good," she whispered back. "We had a flying car filled with ice cream."
"Ooh! Nice one! You want some sausages and toast?"

The fog has lifted now, and the kids are off to school. I'm drinking my reheated coffee and planning my day. In the back of my mind, though, I'm envisioning a flying car filled with ice cream, pastel droplets oozing from the tailpipe.