Grace, The Jig Is Up.

Sometimes I have imaginary dialogues with people. Or, I compose sermons in my head. Here's the speech I was composing in my addled, sleep deprived brain for Grace the other morning. Really, I was. I do this sometimes, it seems to make me feel better.

Grace, since you had the inclination to be awake last night at 11, 1:30, 3:30, 5, and 6:15, I have made the measured, thoughtful decision to be annoyed with you until at least lunchtime. I was under the impression that we had formed an agreement. An agreement that you, as the third child, would be naturally easygoing and low maintenance. Have we not discussed this? Were you not happy with our previous arrangement of the 3am wakeup then back to sleep until 7? Perhaps you could have found a different way to make your feelings known. No?

Regardless, at around 5am I decided that I would be annoyed with you. And now here we are. It's 7:30. The day has begun. There are breakfasts to be made, lunches to be packed, a school uniform to be dug out of the dryer. My hair is still in last night's ponytail and there is a Foreign Substance on my bathrobe. I will not be beguiled by you smiling up at me from the living room carpet as I change your diaper. Stop that, young miss!


Somehow, you manage to be wide-eyed and fresh. You kick your legs and grin at me. I am unmoved.


I acknowledge that you have adorable chubby hands that you have discovered fit perfectly into your mouth. And yes, they look quite cute folded like so.


However, I hope you will allow me to point out that, as you have reneged on our previous arrangement, I now have the prerogative to complain to the other moms at school drop-off. While you are there, listening. Really, you have brought this upon yourself.

Because you see, it doesn't matter that your little feet are so perfect and fit right in my hand.

To put off my annoyance and smile back at you would set a dangerous precedent. Now, you wake me up all through the night. In a few years, you'll take the car out without asking and come home with interesting body art. Do you see where this can lead?

I can tell by your gurgling that you're thinking this through. I certainly hope so, young lady. Because after last night, your name might as well be Wakey McWakerstein.


I am on to you and your tactics. This pre-meditated cuteness and deliberate toothless grin. This squeal that is this close to being your first laugh. Don't think I don't know. And even though I will probably still get up with you each time again tonight, know that I am doing it under duress and in protest.

So, there.