Where is that little...?

In lieu of "good morning", my husband's first words to me this morning were, "Where is that little bastard?" Now, this might mislead a casual observer that my beloved husband and I are on less than civil terms. Nothing could be further from the truth, as any intimate observer would quickly realize. No, he was referring to our three year old, who woke us up at 6:09 on a Saturday morning in summer when we'd let him stay up until 9:30 p.m. the night before. Let's see if you can guess my response to this tender greeting. Was it:

a) in the garage

b) in the backyard

c) playing in traffic, or

d) playing in his room

A far cry from those vaguely recalled romantic greetings of the dawn that existed prior to our child rearing years. Now the only sighing heard is from the reluctant parent who decides to actually get up with the kid.

The kid in question had been up for most of the night. Not sick, injured, or any other acceptable excuse for being awake when it is time to sleep. No, he just decided to be awake. And, just to make things a little more interesting, he desired his beloved parents' presence during his nocturnal activities. They were fascinating, to be sure. The activities, that is. He suddenly decided NOW was the time to brush his teeth, play charades, and practice tying his shoes. Activities we had to tackle him to do in daylight hours were suddenly infinitely more interesting when the moon was up.

Our attempts to convince him of his folly were met with howls of indignation. That normally wouldn't faze us (hey- we Ferberized two previous kids before this one), but one son had karate the next morning and the other....let's just say Andy doesn't do cranky well. In desperation, we tag teamed him, figuring between the two of us we could bore him to sleep.

Daddy had the first shift, and I must say he did a fine job laying down with his boy, humming our alma mater, and patting the offender'ss back. But then Daddy fell asleep, and the kid decided to see what Mommy was up to.

I was rudely awakened by the overhead lights and my hair being yanked out by the roots. No, our son is not a candidate for future intervention with law enforcement officers, but rather somewhat uncoordinated. You see, he reached up and grabbed a handful of blanket to hoist himself up onto our bed, and didn't realize strands of my hair were intertwined in the blanket. My yelp could have alerted the neighborhood of an air raid.

This woke Daddy up, and after nodding off in a toddler sized bed in an awkward position, he had his own aches and pains to worry about. In his leap out of bed to come to my aid, he tripped on the toys on the floor, reached out to catch himself, and inadverdently grabbed hold of the Winnie the Pooh latch hook rug on the wall. The rug came down, along with a few pieces of the drywall. Suffice it to say, it was Mommy's shift after that.

After clearing a path from the bed to the door, I sat in the kid's bed, patting his back and singing lullabies in an effort to lull him to sleep. My arm was numb, my memory depleted, when deep breathing assured me he was asleep. I gently disentangled myself from the bed, remembered where the path to door was, and slipped out. I got back into our bed, where I managed not to disturb my sleeping husband.

45 minutes later, just as I must have been hitting REM sleep, our beloved son climbed into the middle of our bed with a book in his hands, declaring it to be "stowy time". Unable to think clearly, I suggested a DVD instead. The kid accepted my offer with alacrity, displaying an uncanny ability to change direction mid stream.

And that's how Daddy found us, 3 hours later. I was bleary eyed, whether from lack of sleep or the overexposure to shows designed for a 3 year old audience. Oh, and the kid? He was choice b), playing happily with a jar of bubbles.