Happy Thanksgiving

My son should be a stealth bomber when he grows up. I've actually begun to think of him as "The Stealth Bomber" on mornings like this. See, what he does is "stealthily" open his bedroom door and "stealthily" creep into the hallway and "stealthily" hover by my bedroom door, waiting for me to wake. Of course, it doesn't work that way in reality.
What really happens is I wake up because I feel my son pressing on my mind. I was sleeping, my shields are not in place, and he's my son; so I'm aware of every little nuance of L-ness outside of his room.
The second he heads for his door, I can feel him testing if I'm awake. It starts as a light pressure in my head. By the time he's made it to the hallway, it's grown to a full-blown invasion of my senses. I can feel him breathing. I pick up little snatches of thought. "...quiet...I want... it's important... important enough?... shhh... I really do need..."
If I ignore all that and feign sleep, he begins making real noise. He will say what he wants aloud, but so quietly I can't catch it. What I hear is mumble mumble mumble, followed by an expectant pause. He will shift his feet, sit down in the hall with a sigh, knock quietly on the bedroom door, and poke his head in my room.
I always love that one, because by then, I'm waiting for it. His peek into the room is met by my staring eyes. This particular morning he needed to play Sim City, and it didn't auto-install so he was stuck. Gods, I love my son.