When I saw this picture, my heart went all aflutter.
I love my little munchkin with no bounds. But I am not a morning person. And when my “morning” begins at five A.M. I am not even a person. There I was, in my dream, busting out of a cellar with Tommy Lee Jones:
I was just about to convince him that it was better to escape through the cellar than to continue to go from closet to closet when I heard crying. Baby Harbat was up. I swiveled out of bed and saw the clock as I stumbled forward: 5:15. This is late enough that it was unlikely I would get back to the deep sleep I was in and early enough that it was dark outside. When I got to her room, BH was whiny-crying, but a quick return of her pacifier quieted her down. I waited for a minute to let her fall back asleep, then tiptoed to the door. WAAHH! So I went back, rubbed her back, reassured her, gently laid her blankie and kitty next to her. Another minute, another escape attempt. WAAAHH! This time I marched back, gave a quick ‘shush’ and headed for the door. WAAHH! Now my wife was awake, my mother-in-law was up, and my patience had disappeared like a snowflake on your tongue. I love my daughter, but don’t love having my chain yanked at 5:30. I just went back to bed to let her cry it out and calm herself down. When I got up again at 6:15 and went in to get her, I saw a large lump like a goiter around her calf. Her diaper had come loose and slid down her leg, and she was gamely trying to smile and cheer me up. This makes me feel like super parent #1 excellent! Next time she takes a nap, she’ll probably be trying to pull a one-inch splinter from her forearm with her teeth, while I’m angrily shushing her from the hallway.