A plaintive snort echoes throughout the bedroom, and my heart sinks. Sleep is about to fly away, gone for another 18 hours A tiny version of myself, maybe a tiny version of my wife, is peering at me through the bars of the crib in which he is SUPPOSED to be sleeping. Not so. I roll over, hoping that if he doesn't register the eye contact, he'll go back to sleep until at least 6. Six is a human hour to wake up. 5 is not. Five is when Hell wakes up.
Not that I'm calling my son Hell.
It is not to be. The child has seen me. He springs to his feet and grabs onto the side of the crib. Reefing on it with all 24 1/2 pounds of sheer baby power, he's one or two extra-incredible jolts away from ripping the very wall from its hinges. I have no choice but to hoist the beast from his cage.
The brother of the razorwire has heard the call of the wild, and it's time to head downstairs for peanut butter and Nutella. I might even make them some breakfast while I'm at it.