INT. Irish country bedroom. SATURDAY morning, before SUNRISE.
“Mom, time to get up! When can we go meet the kids?”
I slowwwwly, squintedly, open one eye, blink twice, then try to focus on the ebullient face of a little farmer who seems far too jovial upon waking for my fragile morning head to manage. ( note to self: making homemade mead might not be a good routine to start after all)
The clock reads 6:41am.
Confused, I mumble, “kids? what kids?”
He, in his best clever clogs lilt, points out, “Not kid kids, mother… baby goat kids! Remember?”