Night melted into morning sometime around 4 AM, which probably doesn't make sense... but hello, you're reading my blog here. Let's not get all nit-picky.
Four. AM. And Jaxon's sweet voice pierces the cold morning air.
If you have children and can read phonetically, you know that this is the yell of doom, and by doom, I mean you're not getting any more sleep today.
So I drag my
Let's address this cold for a moment. It has officially dropped into the 40's at night (and those of you that don't live in Arizona and are all tough, hush), and it's COLD, and my husband refuses to turn on the heat. Instead, we resort to dressing Jaxon in footie pajamas (which, if I had the time, I would rant about how adorable these footie pajamas are on a still-diapered two-year-old--imagine, his diaper bum is the biggest lump in these sausage casing-like pajamas, so cute) and wearing socks and huddling under blankets. Husband shall be henceforth known as "the miser".
Sorry, I had to read back to figure out where I was in the story because this is a Heather story and we get lost in details...
...so I bring the kid back to my bed which is such a bad idea but I'm absolutely dying of exhaustion at this point in my life and please kid don't you want to sleep in a little bit more?
How does my son thank me for my hospitality? He rolls over on my head and tries to suffocate me for the thought, and if that weren't enough--I can't even sufficiently worry about my own safety or my son's apparently homicidal tendencies because while he's in the process of suffocating me with his adorable footie pajamas, he's also precariously dangling his two-year-old body over the edge of the bed. In retrospect, the three-foot drop probably wouldn't have done anything to him
and I should have let the ungrateful little wretch fall. After an hour of similar entertainment, I suggest to the miser that perhaps our little bundle of joy is tired again, and would like to return to his own room, so off the miser and the grouch go... and I almost nod off in the 20 seconds of peace that follow.
"Hungry! Hungry!" and I inappropriately think "Hippos" at this point. There's an awful lot of inappropriateness going on in this house this morning.
And we're all up and running at a few minutes' after 5, our breath clouding the morning air until I declare that the oven hasn't been cleaned in ages, and it must be done. NOW. Ah, warmth, sweet warmth. My house smells of burnt toast, but the miser doesn't suspect a thing. Ovens. Because Arizonans don't have fireplaces.
Meanwhile, the miser sets Jaxon up in his chair with a cup of chocolate milk, then a nutri-grain bar, banana and cereal--which I probably don't have to point out, is such a rookie mistake that it isn't even funny. And here I am, two-and-a-half hours later, staring at that same nutri-grain bar, banana and cereal that remain untouched--a testament to my son's wasteful nature. I believe he's also a corporate lobbyist for big oil and is pulling for global warming. The chocolate milk is long-gone.
I got an early start on my entry, and after Jaxon finished his breakfast of nutritious sugar milk, he invoked the right to "snuggle buggle", that is, um... Jaxonspeak for snuggling, and got blissfully quiet for the first time since 4. When I finally thought to look down a few minutes later, I realized...
that he was asleep.
I unceremoniously dumped him on the couch and went in search of a pillow and blanket, harvested without much difficulty from Jaxon's land of no return, aka the crib. I returned and made a camp bed on the couch, deposited one (1) two-year-old, flipped on the tube to "Jack's Big Music Show", and took the picture below to share with the miser (who snuck away to head to the office soon after breakfast) before settling back in for some work. Just when I thought Jaxon had conked out again, the remote slid from the arm of the couch and landed near his head. That's when I hear...