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Beneath the covers, barely breathing, hoping not to be discovered Tickling, forces reels of giggles, and unruly hair to peek out. Angelic voices are interpreted, from screams and rhyming words. In darkness, I watch their faces. The faint glow of the night light, transforms them into angelic creatures. A silent prayer of thanksgiving, awestruck. Chests rising, faintly detected. Precious, innocent ones, that just an hour before, were ranting and raving, breathless. And evidence of ruin about, a broken china tea cup and playdough petrified between cracks in the wooden bedroom floor. Good mothers they are, all. Holding their babies just so. Donned in white lace bonnets and satin slips. Never once crying, for, "My baby never cries." Artistic geniouses, outshine Van Gough, with smeared finger paintings of far away places, like Mars. These masterpieces ornament my refrigerator door. Tiny hands that fit perfectly in mine, just right for holding, and stirring margerine into lumpy mashed potatoes, so they can say, "I cooked dinner daddy!" And what resembles cat clawings on three little faces, no one knows how these came to be. Perhaps a family of delinquent cats were loosed, and climbed into bedroom windows to commit such a horendous deed. Absurd, the suggestion that angels extrude their horns and claws. Unthinkable, actually. However, the nursery draperies are being mended, and small saucers of milk have been found underneath the ottoman.
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