He's a maniac, a maniac on the floor

I may have misjudged my mother. Years ago when I was a wee and cantankerous child, I was never much of a fan of getting out of bed when I was told to. What makes it weirder is that I would often get up hours before I had to, wander around the house, go outside and play, then come back in and return to bed about an hour or so before wake-up time. So, naturally, I was pretty tired when Mom came in to get me up. How did my darling mother choose to get me up, then? Did she set an alarm clock? No, that would have been useless, and not nearly strange enough for my mom. She chose, instead, to go out to the yard, grab one of the chickens we raised, bring it to my room, lift up the covers, toss in the chicken, then hold the covers down. Yes, my mother trapped me in bed with a live, and very pissed off, chicken on more than one occasion. At the time, and, really, up until now, I always assumed it was her cruel and bizarre sense of humor and nothing more. Now I realize she was actually preparing me for co-sleeping. Each morning, around 7:30, the ritual begins. His Lordship, who's slept quite well all night, except for the slight fussing in his sleep every two to three hours that indicates he would like to eat, suddenly decides it's time to Bust a Move. Have you seen the classic 80's movie Breakin'? If you have, you have some idea of just what sort of Move he is Bustin'. If you haven't, imagine a 17.5lb Alfred Hitchcock look-a-like with one arm windmilling, the other arm punching straight out from the shoulder, both legs pistoning, head whipping back and forth like an ostrich in full sprint and a charming little booty wiggle. Now, imagine that this is happening approximately 2 inches from your face, boobs and stomach. Oh, and you're sleeping, foolishly in just a nightgown and nursing bra, rather than the regulation ice hockey goalie mask and chest pads. The windmilling arm is some sort of clockwork Jack-in-the-box style lever, as well, because every fifteen or so revolutions of said arm signals the release of a trumpeting fart (from the baby, not from me, though I have accused Mr. Grammatarian of using His Lordship's infantile digestive system as a cover from time to time). You only get a few cycles of the Footloose fart dance, though, before the yelling begins, so you have to disentangle rather quickly from the flailing limbs and tangled blankets in time to get the Jiggy Hitchcock out of the bed and into a better position. At least the reward is better than chicken poop on your nightie, feathers on your pillow and angry squawking, though. As soon as he's being held in the manner he prefers for his Torture Mommy Tango, his big blue eyes open and he breaks out his most heartmelting smile. Advantage: baby. Sorry chickens.