The Sandman used a little too much of his magic on you one night, months ago, and you just woke up out of a deep, deep slumber. You can braid your leg hair. The phrase “I’m gonna pop some tags” means nothing to you. Your pajamas have little snowmen on them, but lilacs are blooming outside. From visual clues, you conclude it’s mid-spring but can’t be sure. Your kids bound into your bedroom, thrilled to see mommy conscious.
“Get up, mom!”
You send them to fetch the coffee maker. After setting it up on the nightstand, waiting for a pot to brew, and taking a few painful gulps, they begin to speak in a frenzied verbal jumble: