so…tired! Can’t…talk. WORDS.
The Small Child, AKA Widdle Debil, has scrapped the idea of being a good sleeper. In exchange, she has decided to set her internal Jerk-O-Meter alarm clock to 5:45 A-to-the-Em-Effing-M.
Every morning with the 5:45, no matter how late I go to bed. I know, logically, this shouldn’t affect when she wakes up, but if God had any compassion, he’d realize that it was my turn to get up after a late night of watching grown men kick each other in the face rescuing puppies and reading to blind children. He’d, perhaps, suggest to Avery that she might like to sleep until, say, 7? And that if she did Santa might bring her a pony? Because with matters concerning the number of hours Mommy sleeps, God and Santa are in cahoots.
Little piece of trivia – “cahoots” means a questionable partnership, whereas “kahoots” is a strip club in Columbus, Ohio.
I’m not even going to try to put a label on the reasoning behind her sudden affection for pre-dawn hell hour. Could be teething, could be a train passing, could be her being a giant, flaming butthole. I don’t care. I. Don’t. Care. I’m tired, woman.
Boo, Avery. Boo to you.
* Except in the summer. Then it’s not morning until Mommy says it’s morning.