Baby Chicken -- YOU get up.

We have a lovely tradition in our household on weekend mornings. It starts with the traditional game of "baby-chicken," in which Dan and I attempt to drive the other out of bed to retrieve the babbling, poo-covered screech monkey that inhabits the crib down the hall (a breed of monkey who apparently has NOT been bred to understand that mommy and daddy DO NOT FUNCTION before 9 on the weekends; 10 if drinking was involved the night before). We each crack an eyelid open as carefully as possible so as not to let the opponent know that we actually are awake or are acknowedging the hooting and squawking blasting over the baby monitor (despite the fact that this is what this device was designed and purchased for); we let out a few badly-acted snores and grunts; we flip over violently so that our backs are to each other, making sure to yank the blankets with utter disgust as we both silently curse the neglectful parenting skills of the other who will so selfishly NOT go tend to the racket in the other room.

Finally one of us snaps the covers back with enough force that we hope will mimic a vicious lockerroom towel snap to the ass, and trudges down the hall to get said screech monkey.

I must point out, since it is my blog and I can tell the truth as openly as I please, that ONLY MOMMY seems to ever notice the rancid stench coming out of Molly's diapered area after 10 or so hours of sleep. Daddy, miraculously, who can distinguish between cuts of pork chop in a wok and types of seasoning used in chili from 2 miles a way, cannot apparently smell a thing. It is at this point that whoever got up first usually decides that now would be a perfect time for some family bonding, and so back we go to mommy and daddy's bedroom with (half the time at least) a poop-laden very chatty baby who spends the next 45 minutes standing on the head and attempting to squelch the eyes out of the poor parent who is still trying to fake being asleep.

"That's RIGHT! That's MAMA! Say, HI MAMA!!!" pokepokepoke gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghlelelgh as she decides to take a step on my trachea shortly before trying to hurl herself headfirst onto the hardwood floor for the 1000000th consecutive time.

Eventually, the parent who was sucker enough to get up takes Molly downstairs for breakfast and the second part of the weekend tradition -- watching the highly addictive lineup of Noggin's morning shows. More on that next time though...and if you are of the mindset that toddlers shouldn't watch TV, I invite you to try to pry this child away from either Elmo, Miffy the weird non-lip-moving bunny thing, or Ooby the freak show human hand with eyeballs on its "head." Seriously.