It is, in fact, 5:45 in the am.  Scott's off to work and I'm procrastinating all sorts of good stuff, including another hour of sleep before crusty-Aiden-pants wakes up.  I'm formulating plans in my head for Conference weekend; ideas are swirling around in my brain and instead of picking and choosing, I'm forcing them to coexist in my imaginary 30-hour days.  I want to make a real Easter dinner complete with fancy glazes and rolls that have to raise between sessions... the kind that will knock. socks. completely. off. and make a husband want to let his wife sleep in the next time he works the 5:30 am shift, out of shear remembered gratitude.  I want to hide eggs in our back yard (the one we may have to say goodbye to soon, long story, the end of which has not been written).  I want to revel in the fact that I don't have to teach on Sunday, just learn.  I love buying new notebooks and pens when Conference rolls around, there's almost nothing better than blank pages soon to be saturated.