I Smell Smoke...

Okay, I didn't want to get up. Mo was up, I knew this. She'd made her usual, very audible exit from her bedroom, ready for the day with a vengeance.

I pleaded, 'snuggle with Daddy?'

This is my way of extending the night. Sometimes she'll pretend to lie still while I pretend I'll get any more meaningful rest after she's up.

It's stupid, because I know I'd have an easier time finding Bigfoot hanging out with Jim Morrison and Elvis than I have of getting Mo back to sleep, and if she's not asleep I can't be.

Example: today.



After she bored of playing with the air from my CPAP, trying to bruise my ribs with her fonching about and asking me to tickle her, Mo went into the kitchen. And I was going to follow her, but in a sec.

And I blinked my eyes and opened them to the smell of smoke. And Barley was agitated and I couldn't quite place the smell. Not food, but not fire. Or not quite fire.

Nachos.

Mo has learned to cook some things for herself, notably baked potatoes. She learned that one lesson a little too well. Four minutes is perfect for a baked potato, but as was discovered a couple weeks ago, not such a good setting for three lonely French Fries.

I don't know how long she set these nachos for, but I told her five times while I helped her re-do this breakfast, 'Thirty seconds, tops. Three-zero-start, that's it. Nachos don't take that long, really.

Really.