I mentioned in my last post how much I cherish sleep. I love to sleep. I sleep in on Saturday and Sunday mornings as my children rot their brains with video games (B) and cartoons (G). If I want to sleep really late, I stock the snack cabinet with a bag or two of powdered Donettes.
There were no Donettes last weekend. G woke me up with, "Hey, Mama, how do I make my own Peanut Butter Jelly sammich again?" Note: he doesn't. The kid is four. No way am I ready for the biohazard that would be my kitchen if he was allowed access to the sticky of both peanut butter and jelly. Also, G with a knife? Yeah, that wakes me up right away.
This weekend, I screamed for Big Brother to make it. My bedroom is adjacent to the kitchen so I could hear the conversations between the two.
G: Not too much peanut butter. It's too hard to chew if you use too much peanut butter. B! I said not too much peanut butter! B!
B: All right! I know how to make a sandwich, G. Just let me do it.
After rustling, crinkling and clinking, B must have passed the sandwich to Little.
G: Hey! Where's the jelly?
B: I didn't know you wanted jelly! You didn't say!
Me (roaring from the comfort of my bed): I asked you to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! Of course he wanted jelly!
G: I'm not eating this. I need jelly.
B: Well, I can't put the jelly on now. If I take the top off, it'll break! Just eat it.
After a bit of debate, B made G a second sandwich. When Josh stumbled out of bed a few minutes later, he saw Little with a sandwich in each hand and no plate. He let loose on that for a minute, then got the kid settled in front of the tv with his breakfast sammiches on a proper plate.
Ten minutes later, G snuck in my room to whisper, "Hey guess what? I think I like the one without the jelly better."
That, my friends, is why it took me twelve hours to get ten hours of sleep this past Friday night.