We couldn't get the Cap'n out of bed. After an hour of my niceness, prodding, delivering hot cups of tea and telling him that daylight was burning - I finally called in the big guns: the Little Terror Suspects. Nothing can make your own bed less appealing than three squirming, fighting, attention-starved children on a Saturday morning.I sent Thumbelina (age 7) in first, with a nudge and a "go wake up Daddy." She came back five minutes later looking sad. When I asked her what was the matter she said: "Daddy is mean. Just because I told him his breath smelled worse than poop, he growled at me and told me to get out. I need a hug, mommy..."
Then I sent in the baby. At 21 months, she tippy-toed into the room and said in the sweetest voice imaginable: "Dadda! Det UP!" and I heard some murmured conversation between them and a big smack of a kiss and then she she toddled back down the hall and into the kitchen. She scowled at me, grabbed a cucumber off the counter and said: "For Dadda. No for Momma." And scampered back into the bedroom. She came back out a minute later and handed me the cucumber, looking confused.
Apparently, he didn't want a cucumber.
So I asked Hawk (age 5). I told him to go wake up Daddy and off he went, his big boy feet going slappy slappy slappy down the hall. I heard a howl from the Cap'n followed by: "HAWK! Get your feet off my bottom! What are you doing?!" Hawk hopped off the bed with a thump and started walking back to his room, as he said:
"Sorry... I was just practicing."
The Cap'n was all: "Practicing?! For WHAT?" But he was already out of bed. Well done, Hawk.
The. End.
(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010
