Recently, my daughter thinks it’s HILARIOUS to wake up at 5 in the morning.  To my daughter, this means more playing with “Baby” (her baby doll), Kiki (her butt wipes… she likes to pretend to scrub floors with these), and “Mickey” (this one is easy… it’s a Mickey Mouse stuffed animal we got her at Disneyland.)

While my daughter thinks it’s the funniest thing ever to wake me up while I’m still trying desperately to recover from being perma-tired – I feel like I’m dying.  I truly feel like my child is murdering me in the cutest, most innocent way possible.  As she stands in her crib, staring at me with those adorable blue eyes, I know she is plotting my death.  As she smiles at me with her full set of teeth (I honestly didn’t know an 18 month-old could have so many chompers) – I know that her smile is her attempt to ease my pain as I slowly say good-bye to this world.  As she giggles, “Mama,” I know my precious moments on this planet are numbered.

My death won’t happen right away – my toddler’s methods are ingenious and well planned.  She wouldn’t want any evidence to point toward her – she’s too cunning for that.  Therefore, I won’t die doing something obvious like falling asleep at the wheel.  My daughter would derive no pleasure from this.  No, I’m going to die simply from being tired.  “How?” you may ask.  I’m not sure.  I just know that the level of fatigue I feel right now is killing me.

I should probably call the cops and let them know that my toddler, who is undergoing sleep regression, is attempting to murder me.  Should I call 9-1-1 or just drive directly to my local police station and die in front of the cops?

Or maybe should I nap?  Hmm… that seems too simple.  It seems too rational and “adult.”  Gross.

Ugh… I’ll nap.  You win this round, toddler.  I know you aren’t truly evil (just your methods definitely undermine the Geneva Convention.)  I love you too much, you jerk.  I’m just so tired.  So. Tired.