Irony.

I become human at precisely 7a.m. and not a minute sooner.

Isaac (age 2) does not understand this.

I am sure that is why he insists on regularly waking me up at 5am. If only he knew the different creature his mother would be if he would just read a book, make breakfast and wash the car during those 2 hours - and wake me at 7:01. I promise he would like that mother - that well-rested pleasant woman who smiles and speaks coherently.

Well, he is not destined to meet her anytime soon.

This morning I woke up to the sun streaming into my bedroom through the shutter slats at a quarter to six. Hey, 5:45 is an improvement over 5a.m. Who am I to complain? I love waking up to sunshine - there is something primally satisfying about it - but where was my little buddy this morning?

My little buddy!!

One flying leap from the bed and a sprint down the hall later I found that he was not only still breathing, but sleeping soundly.

He had randomly selected today to sleep in until 7:30.

Exhale.

After my sunshine and adrenaline rush cocktail, I was tempted to poke the baby and see how he fared with a little involuntary sleep deprivation of his own, but the woman who wakes at 5:45 a.m. is slightly nicer than the one who wakes at 5. (And I did suspect that the fallout from such a dirty trick would only be secretly enjoyable for about the first 15 minutes of his cranky toddlerness.)

So I just stared at him for a minute.

I took in the way his curls frame those chubby little cheeks, and the way his baby mouth pouts.

And then I let that little angel sleep.