Coldfingers

As day turns to night, a child responds to the hour of dusk like the moon's pull on the tide. With exhaustion, the Mule begins craft projects in dire earnestness. The Moose rolls around on the floor with extreme tiredness, or with a mild case of fatigue, wears a variety of costumes formed of cloth scraps, scarves, and selections from the hat rack. His frequent refrain? "What do I look like now?" He accessorizes with props such as the laundry basket lid, the shoe horn, and a pot lid or two.

My defenses are down just as their energy ramps up. What is a mother to do? I sing, I dance, I yell. Here's what works and is kind of fun.

Call me Coldfingers. I employee them on slumbering children to do as I bid, namely to get out of bed in the morning and off of my bed in the evening. It's a hereditary fluke really, but it is convenient to have a deadly weapon in my mama arsenal. I have Raynaud's Phenomena so my fingers and toes are ice cold- perfect for tormenting warm sleepy children. I wiggle them around and threaten to lay on the hands. Ahhhahaha! Can you hear Renfield cackling in the background?

The other is my evil twin, the Tickle Monster. "No, no, any thing but the Tickle Monster," they scream. Conveniently, the Tickle Monster can be conjured up in a moment's notice if compliance is lagging.

I borrowed from the song "Goldfinger" to come up with my own anthem, builds anticipation. For parents with warm hands, you could consider dipping them into ice cold water before rousting your children. The song is kind of catchy. Don't get distracted belting out the tune.

"Coldfingers"
She's the mama, the mama with the ice cold touch
A special touch
Such cold fingers
Beckon you to get out of bed
But the touch of the cold fingers fills you with dread

Golden light pours in your bed
As she seeks to rub your head
But a warm child knows when touched
It's the end, you must get up...

From Mama Coldfingers
Sleeping child, beware of her hands so cold
Those cold fingers boldly roam
To find your warmest places
You must get up or
It's the touch of...
Coldfingers

Golden light pours in your bed
As she seeks to rub your head
But a warm child knows when touched
It's the end, you must get up...

From Mama Coldfingers
Sleeping child, beware of her hands so cold
Those cold fingers boldly roam
Her cold fingers will linger
She wants you up
It's either up
Or it's the hand of
The cold fingers
Don't linger
Get up
Or it's the touch
Coldfingers

As day turns to night, a child responds to the hour of dusk like the moon's pull on the tide. With exhaustion, the Mule begins craft projects in dire earnestness. The Moose rolls around on the floor with extreme tiredness, or with a mild case of fatigue, wears a variety of costumes formed of cloth scraps, scarves, and selections from the hat rack. His frequent refrain? "What do I look like now?" He accessorizes with props such as the laundry basket lid, the shoe horn, and a pot lid or two.

My defenses are down just as their energy ramps up. What is a mother to do? I sing, I dance, I yell. Here's what works and is kind of fun.

Call me Coldfingers. I employee them on slumbering children to do as I bid, namely to get out of bed in the morning and off of my bed in the evening. It's a hereditary fluke really, but it is convenient to have a deadly weapon in my mama arsenal. I have Raynaud's Phenomena so my fingers and toes are ice cold- perfect for tormenting warm sleepy children. I wiggle them around and threaten to lay on the hands. Ahhhahaha! Can you hear Renfield cackling in the background?

The other is my evil twin, the Tickle Monster. "No, no, any thing but the Tickle Monster," they scream. Conveniently, the Tickle Monster can be conjured up in a moment's notice if compliance is lagging.

I borrowed from the song "Goldfinger" to come up with my own anthem, builds anticipation. For parents with warm hands, you could consider dipping them into ice cold water before rousting your children. The song is kind of catchy. Don't get distracted belting out the tune.

"Coldfingers"
She's the mama, the mama with the ice cold touch
A special touch
Such cold fingers
Beckon you to get out of bed
But the touch of the cold fingers fills you with dread

Golden light pours in your bed
As she seeks to rub your head
But a warm child knows when touched
It's the end, you must get up...

From Mama Coldfingers
Sleeping child, beware of her hands so cold
Those cold fingers boldly roam
To find your warmest places
You must get up or
It's the touch of...
Coldfingers

Golden light pours in your bed
As she seeks to rub your head
But a warm child knows when touched
It's the end, you must get up...

From Mama Coldfingers
Sleeping child, beware of her hands so cold
Those cold fingers boldly roam
Her cold fingers will linger
She wants you up
It's either up
Or it's the hand of
The cold fingers
Don't linger
Get up
Or it's the touch
Coldfingers