Usurper!

6:00 a.m.: whines and growls. The Boy is awake.

I drag myself out of bed, pick him up out of his cradle, and take him to the diaper changing station. He's not as cheery as he was yesterday morning. No, he just wanted that diaper off NOW, and oh, by-the-way, did you notice I've got my entire FIST in my mouth because I'm starving to DEATH?

We've got an emergency situation here. Explosion imminent.

With the diaper changed I take him back to the bedroom and ask Judie, who's as groggy as a Dartmouth boy on a Saturday morning, "A naturel, or bottle?"

"Hrngh."

Bottle it is.

I lay him down next to mommy on my side of the bed. He's arching his back and diverting all power to the vocal cords, but I think he's beginning to understand that the fastest way for me to get him a bottle is with two hands. So, he holds back for a moment.

My plan is to give him a quick injection of noms, burp him, and catch another couple of hours of sleep before my first move today. I make the bottle double-time and head back to the bedroom and...

What's this?

The little man is laid out in his little starfish sleeping position. He's like a cartoon coyote splatted on the canyon floor. Out. As in comatose. On MY side of the bed.

Well played, little one. Well played...