Switched at birth

I learned today that Will is not really my son. Ok, so I don't know that for sure, but the seed of doubt has been planted and someone with a greener thumb than mine is caring for it. I have always known that he doesn't look like me at all. He doesn't really act like me either, although he acts more like the Tasmanian Devil in Warner Brothers cartoons than anything else, so I am not sure that is indicative of anything. He loves to read, so that is kinda like me... but our taste in books is totally different. I am reading Jen Lancaster's Such a Pretty Fat and he is reading Little People A Trip to the Zoo. It has way too many doors to open for my taste, while Lancaster's dry sense of humor doesn't keep his interest. Nor does he care about her dieting problems, because let's be honest... he's never dieted a day in his life. How could he relate? But, those differences aside... his behavior this morning was the clincher. He woke up at 6:00a this morning like Mr. Perk Perky Perkerton and has yet to blink or yawn.

Picture Angelina Jolie screaming "That's not my son." That was me this morning although slightly less 1930's glamour and slightly more poundage. But, my plaid pajama bottoms and smudged mascara (both of which I am still wearing 3 hours later) just don't evoke the same image, so picture her instead. To say I am not a morning person is not even a strong enough statement. If I had my druthers, I wouldn't bat an eye until close to 10a. Ok, if I really had my druthers, I would not be even semiconscious until closer to noon. But, I have Will... and Jack... and Tabbi... and no druthers. If someone sees my druthers, please let me know. And can someone call Murphy and ask him to for a vote to change his laws? Because today, the day that Will decided to awaken earlier than roosters (well, I don't know that for sure, but I am willing to call Laura and ask), Jack was sound asleep until 7:30a. Not. Fair. At. All. If it weren't for Will's need to rise before the sun, I could have been asleep til 7:30a. I find it morally repugnant to be aroused prior to Good Morning America and today I was totally Good Morning Indiana. Sick and wrong.

So, I am putting a call in to St. Vincent Women's Hospital to find my real kid. He will be the one still sleeping soundly this morning. I will return the one that has spilled croutons all over the kitchen table, ripped a Styrofoam ball to bits and scattered styrodust all over the playroom floor, dumped Tabbi's cereal milk into the fish tank to feed the fish (don't worry, the last fish died over the weekend so he's not a murder), emptied the cleaning closet of all brooms, mops and vacuums, is playing an extremely loud electric sounding guitar and decided that diapers are for sissies (not yet potty trained) all by 9:12a. "I WANT MY SON BACK!" Sorry, channeling Angelina again.