There are many most excellent ways to start your day: sleeping in, eating breakfast in bed, with a nice long uninterrupted shower. All good.

We were not so fortunate as to have started our day in anything resembling a good way. Rather, we were awakened 30 minutes before the butt crack of dawn by the cutting sound of a toddler saying, "I want Baby Shell." Yeah, OK, that doesn't seem all that bad, but she was in our bed, so the very-much-so out loud words were right in my ear. LOUD. I stumbled down the hall to the Toddler's room to fetch her doll, which was sleeping quite peacefully in the bed that is apparently awful to sleep in past midnight. I guess it turns into a pumpkin or something because the Toddler hasn't managed to stay in it all the way through to single digits for a while.

Back I stumbled with Baby Shell, handing her to the now sitting up toddler. I snuggled back into bed, all warm and cozy, and just as I was about to doze off again, "I want Miffy, please."

AGGLE FLAGGLE KLABABBLE. (That's my new way of swearing without swearing. It makes me laugh, so roll with it, please.)

Miffy is this enormous stuffed animal that I UNFORTUNATELY won from Madame Queen eons ago. Miffy was supposed to go to the local women's shelter and was, in fact, all boxed up and ready to go when Mr. Husband spotted her. And stole her. And wouldn't give her back. Miffy lives by his side of the bed, so he scooped the stupid thing up and gave it to the Toddler.

Just as we were about to return to the land of sweet dreams, the Toddler started talking again. I don't know what she said exactly as my brain was screaming AGGLE FLAGGLE KLABABBLE. SNURP. Little Miss Sunshine was Wide! Awake! and Ready! To! Go!

We ignored her. And ignored her. And ignored her. But then the butt crack of dawn arrived and Mr. Husband had to get up and get ready for work. Of course the Toddler followed him downstairs so she could demand that he turn on whatever nonsense is on Noggin at the butt crack of dawn. And of course she refused to go back upstairs when Mr. Husband had to leave for work. Her little booty was parked on the couch with Baby Shell in one hand and a plate full of waffles in the other.

I let her get babysat by the television. I am not proud.

Just as I was ready to throw some clothes on the kid and dash out the door, her decision to wake up ridiculously early suddenly crashed down on her like a ton of bricks. "I go to sleep," she said.

"If I can't go back to sleep, you most definitely aren't. Let's get your clothes on, please."

"WAAAAAAAAAHHHH." Commence the Sleepy Kid Fit Dance. I love that dance. It's the one where no matter what you do, they want you to do the opposite, even if what you do is exactly what they just told you to do. Next time she's just going to daycare in her pajamas, because the battle was most certainly not worth it. At all.

Somehow the kid managed to be decent, if not actually good, all day at daycare. I'm not real sure how she does that, but I think it's exceptionally unfair that she behaves for the people that are paid to hang with her and then has the audacity to save her grumps for us.

And -OH- how she saved the grumps for us. I spent a very large portion of the evening listening to her scream, "I'M NOT GRUMPY!" at me.

Little hint for the world, if you respond to, "You're grumpy," by screaming and having a hissy fit? YOU ARE GRUMPY. Don't deny it. Just say sorry and move on. (*Ahem*Mr. Husband*Ahem*)

Is it too much to ask that I get to sleep in, eat breakfast in bed, AND get a long uninterrupted shower tomorrow morning?