Sticky Fingers
I was just on the verge of coming out of sleep, just barely hearing the plinking of rain against the windows, when I heard the bedroom door open and close. Toddler-sized movement across the carpet floor. Early. I hoped she just wanted a snuggle. Could've done with about three more hours of sleep after the late service at the restaurant. Pure chaos last night, tickets stacked two deep at the pass. My hair still smelled like fryer grease.
"Pancakes, Daddy!"
Well, the snuggle had been a nice thought, at least. Her tiny voiced declaration was punctuated by a small but very hard poke to my left arm. Ow. Unnecessary. I rolled over and cracked my eyeballs open to see a very formidable five year old standing next to the bed, clad in her favorite stripey pajama shirt with the squirrel and the possum on it.
"Mel, c'mere, have a cuddle for a minute first…" I reached out a hand to her. "Come burrow?" I lifted the duvet up over my face and peeked over. "Like a... " I made a show of scrunching my face. "Like a penguin!"
She giggled. "Penguins don't burrow, Daddy! Silly." She crossed her arms, staring at me rather severely. "You said pancakes last night. You SAID. I'm hungry."
Kids don't let you get away with a single thing. I grumbled. "Okay." Immediate celebration to rival a Super Bowl touchdown: stomping feet, clapping hands, pigtails swirling around her head. "You go get me a cold coffee from the fridge and I'll go brush my teeth. Can't make pancakes with stinky bed breath!"
"Ew, Daddy," she said as she danced on tiptoes out of the room. I sat up and sighed. So much for a relaxing Sunday off.