The big guy woke me up last Saturday by bouncing on the bed and shouting ”Good morning!”

“Uhh,” I groaned and rolled over. 6:30 is too early to wake up on Saturdays.

He crawled over me, and put his face about half an inch from mine. “Good Morning.”

I cracked an eye open and grumbled ”Good morning.”

He pulled his face back, crinkling his nose and waving his hand. “Eewww,” he said. “Your breath smells like rotten strawberries.”

Rotten strawberries? Where the heck did he get that from?

“No it doesn’t,” I said.

“Actually,” my wife said. “It kind of does.”

No respect. That’s my problem: no respect.

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