The lastest incarnation of our morning routine has Kai waking up in the early morning, anywhere from 5 to 6 o'clock. He is nursed and one of the parents takes him downstairs and spends quality time (read: keeps him busy and quiet) until he tires, roughly 90 minutes later, and is ready to finish his slumber.
This morning, I was roused mid-dream (the roof was falling at a church, the orchestra was safe in the basement, we headed downstairs, Jon A was looking for a piece of lined paper) to carry on where Shelley left off. She was too tired to finish the shift, gave me the update on time awake, the diaper situation, and location of his blanket.
Bleary-eyed, muddle-headed and effectively still asleep, I toted him around as he fussed and fretted. Figuring he was hungry (because why would Shelley get me up to only put him back to bed?), I prepared some rice cereal as he wailed. Shelley returned and suggested maybe he was tired. Indeed he was, but I was unable to interpret his standard cues, or make the mental connection to his needs.
It would be quite safe to say that I am not a morning person.