March 09, 2006
So we get what we had last night.
Which is the way you want it.
Well, you gets it.
The problem, I think, stems from the fact that you have been, in the past weeks, very very sick. So sick, in fact, that keeping food where it belongs in your tummy was quite outside the realm of your capabilities. This being the case, your mother and I made the executive decision to remove the cheese sandwich from your sulinary repertoire and replace it with your most favoured cuisine, le b00b.
Unfortunately, you appear to be of the opinion that said b00b should be available for your snacking upon 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Given that the object of your culinary affections is attached to your mother, who is rivalled only by some of Lewis Carroll's less well known literary creations in her dedication to the arts of sleep, it appears that we are at an impasse, a mexican standoff if you will.
You are, however, at a distinct disadvantage.
This disadvantage being that your parents are of the opinion that they will be able to outlast you. That tonight, as with last night, when you awake and begin screaming for your room service, a sleepy hand will reach out from under the covers of the parental suite and the monitor will be turned down. A pillow will be placed firmly over a parental head, eyes will be closed and ears will be shut.
We will stand fast, punkin, through all manner of cajoling. All cries from your wing of the estate will be resolutely ignored. All screams, yells, thumps, shouts and other noises of indeterminate nomenclature will be quickly triaged according to a system designed to avoid at almost any cost the requirement for a parent to arise.
At a predetermined time, a parent will attend your bedchamber in order to assure ourselves that you are not ACTUALLY choking or beating your head against the wall, and then return to the parental sleepchamber.
At No Time will you be removed from your cot.
At No Time will there be any room service.
Jus Du Boob, Monsuier, is Off The Menu between 8pm and 6am.