I'm raising three future professional torturers.
None of my kids want me to sleep.
Punk has been up every two hours for the past two days, loudly and vehemently demanding the booby juice. And at three a.m. like clockwork, it's playtime in her world.
I've tried ignoring her, but I've begun having waking nightmares about my baby crawling out of her cradle and coming over to me yelling, "Feed me, Seymour!" (Little Shop of Horrors reference for you who don't like campy musicals.)
Add to that mix, my boys, who haven't been eating their suppers, waking up at four a.m. demanding breakfast, milk, and an attorney to prosecute me for civil rights violations and there is no sleep to be had.
They're wearing me down. I'm getting twitchy. I startle at strange noises, and with three kids there are a lot of strange noises.
I'm willing to talk.
I'll tell you anything.
Just make it stop!
Whimper.
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