Good Morning.

Noah has decided instead of talking a bottle and going back to sleep at 6am, he wants to get up and eat something, like a graham cracker or applesauce. This means that I have to get my bootie out of bed and be somewhat functional, enough to pick him up out of his crib, wipe the big boogers off his nose, change his heavy, damp diaper, and get him in his high chair, all while my back feels like it might just break if I bend over.
I usually give him a cracker to gnaw on while I get the coffee maker going, and then we just sit there and and look at each other, our eyes and cheeks still swollen from sleep.
I know it is always easier when I get up before he starts wailing from his crib, but there is something in me that resists that, like I shouldn't have to, that it is my right to get sleep. Maybe it's leftover residue from the infant stage where everything revolves around the little, gawd awful spurts of sleep you manage to squeeze in whenever. I still have the mentality I am fighting for my sleep. And I won't lose one extra minute of it.
So until his majesty decides he doesn't need his parfait at six o'clock in the morning, the routine will be exactly the way it is.
After he eats I pick him up and he smells sweet like pie. I can't keep my nose away from his doughy cheeks.