Tiny Dancer

Mr. Bitchford and I are babysitting this weekend. We are keeping one of Mrs. Flax's little ones. Our bedroom door swung open at 6:45 a.m. There was a little voice that squeaked, "I'm awake...GET UP!" I felt a large thud on the bed, and then there was a knee in my kidneys. The dogs started raising hell and jumped on the bed. The Tiny Dancer then requested pancakes and sausage for breakfast. We stumbled out of bed and headed towards the coffee pot. There were several high pitched squeals as we shuffled towards the kitchen. Mr. Bitchford started breakfast, and I began to unload the dishwasher. Do you have any idea how hard it is to unload someone else's dishwasher? Mrs. Flax will probably never find her measuring cups or whisks. Who has more than one whisk? I digress. Mr. Bitchford made some pretty good pancakes and some turkey sausage. We ended breakfast by putting little pieces of sausage in between the Tiny Dancer's toes. We proceeded to let the dogs loose. More high pitched squeals of laughter. It was a good morning.

UPDATE: I spoke too soon about the good morning. As I was posting this, I heard the Tiny Dancer screaming for me. I found him in his bathroom. He was bent over holding his ankles with his butt cheeks spread. He needed me to wipe him.