Resisting a Rest

It's 8:16am and he is eating a bagel with cream at the kitchen counter while I put clean dishes away.  As I drop silverware into its designated slot, he says:
Mom? Mom? Quiet, please. My brain’s still sleeping. 

He got up at 5:41am.

Are we allowed to discuss what it’s like to have your brain enslaved to somebody else’s needs?  Because my brain wasn't really awake yet either.

His sleep schedule seems about as sturdy Nature Valley granola bars and ancient ruins.  His behavior, perhaps related, is similarly crumbly.

And as soon as I mention he may be turning a corner, that his attitude has improved and his demeanor has been more pleasant, he reverts.  He is, after all, still three.

When I say that some days I feel like I live with a Tasmanian devil I'm downplaying the situation.
Is it still hyperbole if you're not exaggerating that much?

I heard someone call it a ginger snap, the way a red head can go crazy on occasion.  And he does, but to be fair, I do too.

His are ordinary rebellions, and he has resilience to spare, so he will survive despite my impatience and irritability, despite my poor mothering choices and my flying off the handle moments.

At night he asks for extra special time, for another sip of milk, for one more book.  He spins a tornado of last minute requests, presents a litany of not-ready-for-bedtime needs, recites the entire Preschooler's Prayer of Procrastination.

Some days I feel like I have energy enough to handle Looney Tunes characters, courage enough to tightrope between sky scraping needs, patience enough to model calm.  Other days I am too weary to brush my teeth before bed.  Fortunately that's one of those things I can manage while my brain is sleeping...

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