Addiction

This morning — believe me, I wish I was making this shit up — Leanne came into our room, stood on the foot of the bed, and started yelling “cock-a-doodle-do”. Why anyone teaches their kids how to speak is beyond me.

Adding insult to injury, she then pulled the covers off of me. Let’s not forget this is just a normal Tuesday. When I think about what she has planned for Christmas morning I wet myself a little and then curl up in a corner.

I have what I believe to be an elegant solution to the problem. I’m going to get her addicted to coffee. Come with me here. The reason this morning’s antics had me wondering about the potential fire hazards and legal implications of nailing her door shut at night is because I’m an order of magnitude beyond useless without my morning coffee. On average, roughly three days a week I don’t remember Meg’s name until well after 8am.

If I could apply that to Leanne? Picture a zombie child wandering into our room in the morning and plopping on the foot of the bed only to fall back asleep. If I time it correctly, she won’t start to get talkative until the walk to the bus.

Assuming Meg convinces me not to go forward with this plan, I’m marking this date: October 29, 2013. Let’s say that the teenage sleep-until-noon thing starts at 15. On October 29, 2022, I am setting my alarm for 5am and I’m going to blow an airhorn in her room. Some of you who don’t know me may be wondering if I’m really the kind of jackass that will hold a grudge for 9 years. Those of you who do know me aren’t wasting time wondering.

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