6:20AM. A cruel hour of the morning for anyone to wake up, in my considered opinion. Today I had to achieve a more full level of consciousness, as I had to take the two littlest to their school this morning.

GAAHHHHHH. This is the sound my being makes as I get up and walk into the bathroom, hair in comical disarray, my Eric Cartman shirt saying "SWEET!" in the mirror. Alright!

I stare like a stunned turkey in my closet for awhile, then pick some skinny jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a red hoodie to wear. Yesterday, I got a pair of rock star shoes, an insanely-glittery silver pair of Converse sneakers that are the boldest shoes I have ever had, which says something. I look at them, boldly sitting there, and I think, yes, I will put you on this morning, you will wake me up. I think it is possible these shoes have superpowers, and sans coffee this morning, I need some.

As we drive down the road, thankfully absent at the moment of rain, annoying bicyclists, or total idiots, the radio plays while the kids bicker mildly about whatever. "Misirlou" by Dick Dale comes on. I turn it up. My ten-year-old is a big fan of surf music.

Me: Oh! Here's a surf song you will like!
Mr10: [smiles]
Me: He plays pretty fast, huh?
Mr10: Whoa.
Me: That's not easy to do. This is Dick Dale. He is known as "The King of the Surf Guitar."
MissSix: Kings play fast.
Mr10: Whoa, dude, not even the Beatles can play that fast!
MissSix: Or the Rolling Stones!
Mr10: Or The Black-And-White Stripes!
Me: [massive smile]

We get to school, I sign them into the early morning daycare, and Mr10 comes up and gives me a gentle hug and a smile. I ask him what's up, and he smiles again, and says, oh, nothing.

On the way back home, I stop at the OOGCP for a latte and a croissant. The nice blonde girl who works most mornings smiles and greets me, has the latte going before I even ask. A large group of men are having a meeting there, sitting in a large oval on the various chairs and sofas, serious. They all look very much the same.

I move over to pick up my coffee from the far counter, thank the girl, and a woman dressed all in shades of tan and beige and brown, her brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, probably about 10 years older than me, taps me on the shoulder.

"Nice shoes," she says with a smile, as she walks past me and out the door.

Shoes can be magic, and kings play fast.