I awoke this morning to the whining cry of my daughter Isabelle. The clock on the cable box said 5:18am. Too early.
Mind you Izzy hasn't napped in three days. I figured she would be asleep until 9am.
I decide to be strong and wait it out a bit. But between the crying, the sound of my husband snoring next to me and the cat meowing to let me know the baby was crying, I had no choice but to get out of bed.
I throw on my "mom" robe -- a big fuzzy pink one -- and walk bleary-eyed down the creaky hallway. The sun hasn't yet come up, but the light in the downstairs hallway is shining up the stairs. Without thinking to turn it off, I open the door to my daughters' room.
Izzy is standing up in her crib, arms outstretched, with monkey tucked securely under her armpit.
"Upppp-ieee," she says.
I lift her up out of the crib and sneak out the door. Her semi closed eyes open wide in the light. She now asks for a pop (lollipop), which are prohibited until further notice. I realize I can't try and get her back to bed in the hallway with the lights on below, so I carry her back into my bedroom rubbing her back in hopes to get her back into dreamland.
I sit on the chair in my room (straight up) and rub her back until she closes her eyes and rests head on my shoulder. I am sitting there hoping that I can also fall back asleep. By this time it's 5:40am and the sky is starting to brighten ever so slightly. The night is slipping away from me and reality is sinking in. I try to slip back into bed.
My husband is still snoring away. It is not as loud as it could be, but in the silence it's loud enough. Neither Izzy and I are going back to sleep.
"Show," she demands.
I turn on the T.V. and my hubby doesn't budge. Izzy starts to squirm and scream.
"Snacks!!!!" she yells, and with that she slides off the bed and heads down the hallway to the stairs. She wears a sleep sack to bed so when she walks it's all wobbly like someone from Star Wars. I turn off the T.V. and my hubby doesn't seem to flinch.
Downstairs I go with my daughter to get a snack. I pour Cheerios into a snack trap, feed the cat and grab her something to drink. She catches sight of something in the fridge.
"Apple?" she requests.
I turn around and grab an apple. Arched back, screaming and tears ensue. She turns back to the fridge.
"Door... open!!!!" she yells. "APPLEEEEEE!!!"
I open the door and say show me. She points to a small container of cherry tomatoes.
"Izzy, those aren't apples," I explain.
But she isn't having it. I glance at the microwave. 5:50am. Not even 6am, are you kidding me?
I am clearly not going to win this debate. She is on the floor flopping around like a fish out of water over a tomato she thinks is an apple. So I decide to get it out of the fridge, cut it up and give it to her to eat.
Her arms wave in delight (a.k.a. happy hands) during the process. I cut the small tomato in half and we walk back over to the T.V. in the family room. Ni-Hau Kai-Lan is on. Finally we are into morning hours, although still too early. Meanwhile, Izzy is chanting "apple, apple."
She bites into the "apple."
"Eeeeewwwww," she says and throws it on the ground. Classic.
