Dear fruit of my loins,
Why is it that your mother and I have to wake you up most weekdays? Have to poke, cajole and drag you from your beds (Millie, I’m mostly looking at you here)?
And yet, here we are early on Saturday, no plans for the morning, no need to get up for hours, and you’re both awake and bounding about the house like genii released from a particularly small and cramped bottle.
Why is that?