Betty Crocker Breakfast

Pigtails never fails to crawl into our bed every morning at dawn, reeking of pee drenched Huggies, only slightly sour morning breath (the worst doesn't hit until four or so) and mystery baby powder (I've hardly ever sprinkled any on her bottom, not even when she was a newborn).

A newly uploaded annoying chime coming from my husband's bedside Blackberry woke all three of us up this morning.

Unlike me, Pigtails fell right back to sleep. We lucked out on the third baby with a self-soothing model. Insert thumb, twirl hair and Pigtails is knocks right back out.

Fully asleep again, Pigtails karate kicked off the covers - she never could stand being swaddled or covered up in any way, it's a wonder she keeps her clothes on at all - and frowned, at least her drooly lips appeared down-turned from behind the pulsing thumb she has perma-jammed between them. Whimpering followed.

"It's okay, baby girl," I whispered near her ear, trying to stop another way too-early wake up before it started.

"No it's not okay," she said after plucking her thumb from her pout. Her eyes were still sealed shut in slumber.

"What, honey? Whaddyou' say to Mummy just now?"

"It's not okay! I want MY OWN chocolate cake for my birffday, Mommy! I WANT CAKE!"

Sure enough, when Pigtails woke up three hours later for the day with her white-blonde hair all tangled up like a tumbleweed beehive, the first thing she asked for was the chocolate cake of her dreams.

"Where's MY birffday cake, Mommy?" she demanded, as if I'd prepared one for breakfast.