ime plays games on you as a mother. You hope to cherish every moment with these little creatures you have spawned, and yet when you have the opportunity, especially at 6:30 am, you find yourself searching for Barney or the Teletubbies to take your place so as to not have to do anything but wake up.

This morning, for instance, I tried to read the newspaper.

Lately, I've been tossing the thing in the recycling bin after slipping off the rubber band just so I can cross something off my to-do list. But this morning was different. The house was clean. It was still dark outside. I had successfully lured my daughter into observing me in several AM yoga poses before she decided to rectify my auspicious behavior by sitting on me -- night-night blanket, juice, teddy bear and all. "Up," she said, over and over and over again, arms outstretched. Naturally, I thought of the paper.

Be mindful of the fact that I did get out of bed, cooked a nice steaming bowl of iron-fortified cereal, rescued several yogurt-covered raisins from captivity between the sofa cushions (while calming the high-pitched objections of the dry-diapered toddler standing next to me ). I even fixed a cup of coffee for myself and a shot of green tea for my husband. The kitchen was still relatively clean. Life was good. The paper was waiting.

First I tried to read it while seated in the reading chair, but that idea quickly became an obstacle course of baby commando: "up, mama, up," spilled juice, and then a more aggressive game of run and jump through the outstretched periodical. I couldn't read a word like this, so I decided to retreat into the bathroom.

My husband was awake, flipping through morning TV programs from the sofa. He could handle entertaining her for a few minutes.

I sat undisturbed for what seemed like two minutes. Yet time betrayed me again, because when I looked at my watch it had only been only one. Then, as if on cue,my daughter joins me in this most private refuge, her giant Big Bird and an oversized Marvin-the-Martian floor pillow in tow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her placidly lay them at my feet and stare at me, then the newspaper. Next, Chicken (our way-too-cute cat) joins us, dragging his kitty tease behind him. He sits and looks at me, at her, then the paper. There's not much to do at this point but give in. The paper will have to wait. My daughter wants to share this moment with me [read EVERY MOMENT, because I can't read a word], and I suppose I should be thankful.

What I am thankful for are the rare moments of clarity. These are the times when you have given in to your child's pleadings. You may sigh in frustration, your tone of voice harsher than it needs to be. But then the enlightenment comes: whatever you were trying to do probably can wait, but your child will only be this young once. This happened to me recently when I found myself sitting under a make-shift tent, staring into my daughter's eyes, thinking about the work waiting on the computer screen. She asked me to take off my watch and I obliged. She played with it as a bracelet for awhile, tried to put it on her foot, then placed it on her head and said, "Hat?"

Once you give in, it's easy to give your undivided attention to the one so desperate for it that you feel guilty for making her wait. So put the paper down. You just might get a glimpse into the wonderfully simple world of a toddler's life, where time is nothing but a hair ornament.