Z's taken to waking up with a growl. The kind of whiny growl you might expect to hear from an unfed lion cub. This guttural noise is accompanied by squinty glares, put-upon flops from one side of her bed to the next and pointy grunts that I'm supposed to translate to "I'm cold. Get me something with long sleeves. Nooooo, not a sweater!!! A long-sleeved pajama top. Not that one!!! Now put it on me because I've lost the ability to move my limbs overnight."
Demanding that she frame her requests in clear English (preferably preceded by "please") transforms the angry lion cub into something far worse: an incoherent, inconsolable pillow-soaker. If I close the door so that my eardrums don't split and I don't lose my temper, she ratchets it up a notch, hyperventilating and hiccuping her misery. Over what, exactly? That never becomes clear. Perhaps waking up to the sounds of me dressing her sister in the next room awakens the green-eyed monster within ("Mommy's spending time with my little sister instead of me. And it's not fair!!!)
After 5 minutes of howling (and a sharp rebuke from Josh that only accelerates her tantrum) I go back in, give her a hug and help her into a long-sleeved pajama top. She skulks around upstairs while I shower (baby sister and Daddy are downstairs having breakfast), and by the time we come down she's totally fine.
If this is what wake-up time's like for an almost 4-year-old, I can't wait to see what the morning rush will bring when she's 14.
