Originally posted 10/16/2009
Every morning my husband Dennis emerges from the bathroom at 5:30 am and blasts me with a shock of light.
I roll over and take my Levothyroid (I do this as soon as humanly possible since I am then required to wait for an hour before having food and *gasp* coffee) and then, as was the way of the past, fall back to sleep until 7:00 am.
The good old days came to a hasty halt last week when our two year old son Joseph realized that he can open the door of his room at his temporal discretion, scamper into the hallway and proclaim, "Mommy! Mommy! I want light on! I want my vitamin! It will make me strong!"
This usually happens at seven minutes of 6:00 am.
But not this morning. This morning at the callow hour of 5:31 am I tooted a squall so high in pitch and extensive in duration that folks buried at the local cemetery were prompted to tear at the earth above them and re-birth, zombified, on a beeline for the Tastee Freeze and long overdue coffee and jelly donuts.
Since I sleep in earplugs as defense against my husband's garbage truckian snores, it was not until I rolled over to check Joseph's baby monitor (yes I realize he's no longer a baby, if it were up to me I'd have that monitor on him well into high school) that I detected the fuss and caught Dennis gaping at me in wide-eyed sanctimonious husband-fury.
"You woke him up! That fart woke him up!" He pointed towards the monitor. "When I came out of the bathroom he was lying right there."
"I woke him up?"
Dennis corrected, "Your fart woke him up!"
Time to pay the piper. I slithered out of bed in search of Joseph's gummy Flintstones.
