Noah took today off so we could enjoy a four-day weekend together. Yesterday evening he had the rather romantic idea that we could wake up before the rest of the household and eat breakfast and drink coffee on the porch while watching the sunrise. I was down with this, because I can handle sleep deprivation way better when it's by choice.
Our dogs had other ideas.
They woke up 15 minutes before our alarm went off, which turned out to be 20 minutes too late to see the sunrise anyway (we winged it on the time). "Ah well," I thought. Just as we were dropping off into a snooze, Ethan woke up. Two hours earlier than usual.
It's now 10 a.m., and Ethan has impressively maintained a near-constant, shrill whine since 7, a sound not unlike that of a distressed bald eagle squawking six inches from your ear for three hours.
The morning was christened—actually, I was christened—when Ethan sat on his potty to pee and got his weenie caught up on the "splash guard," effectively turning himself into a garden fountain with impressive range. After a 10 minute crisis over which sippy cup was acceptable (he settled on the Mickey Mouse one I originally suggested after a lot of heated, emotional debate), he fell down...near? in the vicinity of? sort of on-ish?...our round-top coffee table (which I pushed to the side of the couch yesterday, Where It Can Never Hurt Anyone Again), and one of its doors promptly fell off.
So that's where I'm at. How was your morning?