Breakfast With Jane

Breakfasts with Jane are an event lately. She talks so, so, so much. I’m assuming that’s my contribution to the genetic pool. I love it. She eats her bananas and chatters away at me. I nod and respond as if I know exactly what she’s saying. Mabel stalks under the table, waiting for just one crumb underneath Jane’s high chair.

Breakfasts are coming later each morning, mostly because her nights have been rough lately and she sleeps in. Here’s how it does down:

1. She goes to bed.

2. She wakes up around 4:00 calling so sadly “Mommy” and crying.

3. I cave and put her in bed with us.

4. My work as an actor begins as I pretend to be asleep so she’ll get the message that she too should snooze.

5. She snuggles into my arm and for a few minutes, it looks like she’s asleep. Success!

6. Not so fast. My acting skills continue to prove pointless as she jabs her pointer finger into my cheek, peering closely at my face.

7. She talks to herself for a while about her “big girl potty” and then she reaches through the darkness and inserts her pointer finger into my nostril.

8. I continue to play dead as she pats my hair, and then proceeds to grab my double chin and pinch.

9. I make a mental note to cut her talons at sunrise.

10. I feel her breath in my face as she puts her forehead to mine and whispers, “Mommy?”

11. The gig is up and I smile, and then she laughs.

It’s official. I’m a big wuss. A big, sleep deprived wuss.

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