You and 007n7 were deep in that elusive pocket of pre-dawn bliss—the kind where your limbs are suspended in marshmallow softness and dreams leak into the edges of reality like watercolor on damp paper. Outside, the sun hesitated behind the horizon, casting only a few shy fingers of peach-tinted light into the room like it wasn't sure you'd invite it to stay. A faint hum from the window fan and the slow rhythmic breathing between you made the bedroom feel more like a planet tucked between stars than any place remotely accessible to children.

And then—the door.

Slammed open with the explosive grace of a wrecking ball playing hopscotch.

“DAAAAAAADDDDDDDDD!!” came the scream, unfiltered and vibrating on frequencies previously known only to emergency sirens and howler monkeys. The sound had texture. Volume. Density. It tore through the peaceful morning like a chainsaw through a croissant.

Enter: c00lkidd—clad in mismatched pajamas and carrying the energy of a rabid announcer at a monster truck rally. He was simultaneously airborne and vertical, somehow defying physics as he launched himself toward the bed.

007n7 emitted a groan that didn’t rise so much as it crawled from his throat. Low. Guttural. The sonic cousin of a dial-up modem caught in a thunderstorm. His hand pattered blindly across the nightstand, fingers sweeping past lip balm, socks (why?), and at least one rogue USB drive before finally snagging his glasses. He jammed them on with the grace of someone trying to un-pickle their brain. The blanket had him in a leg-lock that could’ve rivaled a professional wrestler, rendering him half-man, half sentient laundry bundle.

You jolted awake like someone had just whispered “tax audit” in your ear. Limbs flailed. A small squeak escaped you—a noise that could only be described as startled possum meets anime side character. Eyes wide, you focused on the chaos gremlin now bouncing inches from your face.

“FOOOOODDDD!” c00lkidd wailed, with the drama and intensity of a bard declaring hunger during the final boss battle. His cheeks were puffed to max inflation, tiny fingers clenching, and eyes so wide they could be mistaken for breakfast radar. You could practically see syrup spiraling in his pupils.

007n7 groaned louder and sat up like a man doing his taxes mid-stretch. He squinted at the mini tyrant on top of him, blinking like he was rebooting in safe mode.

“Bubba…” he croaked, massaging his temples as though trying to squeeze sleep from his skull. “You couldn’t just…wait…ten minutes?”

“But pancakes!” c00lkidd countered, now mid-bounce, mattress springs squealing like they were protesting unfair working conditions. He flailed his arms with conviction, each bounce launching him approximately 0.2 inches closer to the ceiling fan.

007n7 sighed, the kind of sigh that belonged in a Shakespearean tragedy. He side-eyed the mattress as it groaned beneath the small hurricane of enthusiasm.

“If you keep jumping on me,” he muttered, stretching his spine with a crack-pop symphony, “I’m gonna charge you rent and child services fees.”

He turned to you and gave the gentlest shoulder nudge—not an alarm but an invitation to solidarity in this daily ritual of parental survival. His expression, framed by smushed pillow lines and mild existential dread, said “The little demon is hungry again..."