You'll never guess what I'm doing tonight.

Not writing a long blog post.

Not watching Lost (because I'm ashamed to say I missed the first episode this season and am still catching up online)

Not playing Rockband - a shocking thought in itself.

No, I am doing what all the cool elderly people do and going to bed early. I need my beauty sleep. I need the sleep I slept before I ever had children. The blissful, wake-up-to-the-alarm-after-eight-solid-hours type of rest. To have the sort of morning that says "I'm going to have a coffee because I want to, not because I need to."

I hear that such mornings exist, somewhere. Perhaps if I do some regression therapy I might find a time - say, about twelve years ago - when I too experienced such a miracle.

After several nights of Spawnling waking up around 5 a.m. and doing everything in his power to make sure I wake up with him - lovely, gentle gestures like arm-scratching, face-slapping and hair-pulling - I am too tired for even caffeine to have its usual chipper affect on my personality.

I did manage to haul my ass to a coffee shop this morning with my neighbour after Spawnling threw a brilliant tantrum. He threw his boots. He cried and wailed and screamed. He used all the little demonic tricks he's mastered so well since hatching from his pod twenty-eight months ago.

The good news is that his behaviour vastly improved and was near angelic at not only the child-friendly coffee shop - where he sat nicely, ate his food, made good conversation and played with some of the toys - but also at Walmart while we picked out some fabric for cushions and curtains. He did have one little slip which involved smacking me over the head a few times because I was taking too long picking out new undies for myself. It's not his fault, though. He doesn't understand a girl's need for new undies. I shall have to teach him, lest he smack his date over the head one day in the Fruit-of-the-Loom section and get a slap back followed by some jail time to ponder how his mother never taught him the importance of women's undergarment selection.

Spawnling has been terribly aggressive lately. This week has been hellish. I've seriously considered writing to some carnie friends I met last summer; if the gypsies won't take him maybe the fair freaks will.

But, just as I'm about to email Fish Hook Willy's Blackberry, Spawn starts working his charm. He'll make me laugh with random song hummings, such as today's E-Pro, by Beck. Or, if he figures that's not enough to guarantee a mother/scratching post for the next sixteen years, he'll say something cute like "Mommy, you're my very best friend in the whole wide world. You know that?"

Yes, he really does speak that well. My genius genetics have travelled to the next generation. Either that or he's an alien. We're still on the fence. I'm leaning towards alien not only because my genetics are more of a biological joke than an asset, but also because I could sell him to the travelling freak show for more money.

I am off to watch some Little Britain before getting my granny self to bed. If you haven't seen that show I highly recommend it. It's like Mad TV on crack, except you don't have to do the crack first.

Very good news if you're a recovering addict like yours truly.

Oh, and I'm speaking at an AA meeting on Friday night.

And my sponsee will be there.

So, like, I actually have to be good at it.

Yet another reason for some good sleep. Trying is really hard.