Friends, my husband is a miracle worker. A magician. A saint. A hero. Nothing less.
I woke to shower at 6:40 (should've been 6:15). So did Phoebe, probably from my alarm beeping several times from its incessant snoozing. While I showered, Michael soothed her. When I got out, she was still murmuring.
At 7, I prepared her breakfast, certain that she'd be up in moments. Michael went in for one last soothe, and then... pow. She's out.
When your child no longer blissfully sleeps through the night, waking with yucky teething pain and stopped up noses... well, let's just say you'll take an extra few minutes in the morning.
Did I mention that I love my husband?