Orders from the Leader

Well, not the Dear Beloved Leader, our Duce, our Emperor, the Protector of Daly City and King of the Islas Malvinas and Gibraltar, but the other one. The Leader who rules not with an iron fist in a velvet glove, but rather with big brown eyes and plaintive cries of "Babbo, pllllleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase."

Anyway, she gave me my orders today:

"Babbo. I am going to go to bed in your bed (this was after first asking very politely if she could sleep in my bed), but you are going to stay up and work for a little bit, so I can get to sleep and your snoring won't bother me. Then, when you come to bed, I can snuggle with you and keep toasty warm."

How can I possibly disobey a command like that?

I will say this: Amalia has been quite a trooper this last week, with the disruption and the strict orders (very difficult for a big, active, pouncing little Portugee) that she is to be gentle with Mamma for a few weeks after Mamma gets back from the hospital (it is looking like Sunday, by the way). I have not had to as much as raise my voice with her once, at least not seriously (only one brief time to express urgency, not anger, as she was playfully tearing my finger off - did I mention that she is big, active and pouncing?).

No offence to my female readers, or their little girls, but right now, I think Amalia is the sweetest girl in the world (she gets it from her Mamma, no doubt. Folks call Italians and Germans lots of things, but sweet is rarely one of them).