I am NOT a morning person. I am fully capable of sleeping in until 3:00PM if left undisturbed. There is absolutely nothing finer in life to me than to sleep in on a Saturday until I just can't take it anymore and force myself to roll out of bed. I have not, however, slept in on a Saturday morning for the last 3 years (coincidentally, since the Biscuit was born).
Now, when I decided to have a child, this was one of the things I knew I would give up, and I was glad to do it. I didn't realize how much I would truly miss it though. And, honestly, I think I am not as nice of a person as I used to be because of it.
I write this... as my husband lies in bed asleep as he does every Saturday morning. And so our story begins at 6:30 AM on a Saturday morning...
"Maaa-om!" says the Biscuit lovingly.
"Whaa-aaat?" I reply.
"Mom. My car won't fit under here," he says.
"Sorry," I reply.
6:31 AM on that same Saturday morning...
"Maaaa-om!" he shouts again.
"Yes, love" I say, though my patience is beginning to wear thin.
"Mom. Did you move my candy?" the Biscuit asks as if this is an important question for this early in the morning.
"No, love. I didn't move your candy. You ate it." I respond.
"My sweet-tar-tarts?" he stammers.
"Yes, love. You ate your sweetarts last night. Let's not talk for a little while okay?" I beg.
6:32 again, the same Saturday morning...
"Maaaa-ooom. Did you touch my cars." the Biscuit asks.
"Biscuit. Mommy doesn't want to talk anymore this morning." I demand.
"But Maaaaaa-om!" he screams.
"If you have something to say, go tell your daddy." I implored.
"But Mom, Daddy's sleeping." he responds.
"Yes, Daddy IS sleeping." I say.