Stop. Just stop. Mama has decided that 3 a.m. is NOT an appropriate time to feed you, and you're just going to have to survive until six. Using me as a human trampoline repeatedly doesn't make me more inclined to get up and feed you. What it does do is make me more tempted to commit felicide in a rather violent manner. Let's also discuss last night's little trick of continually yelling in my ear for a full hour, with me gritting my teeth and earnestly wishing one (or both) of us dead, until I finally gave in at five. You can survive longer than four hours without food; you manage quite well not being fed until three in the afternoon, so I know that you're just lying your little heart out. I hesitate to lock you in the basement with your brother and sister, mostly because I'm afraid of the mess you'll make of your father's HO scale layout if I do so, but I'm getting close to the limits of my endurance for not getting any sleep--five days and counting now, you little twirp!
Quit. Or I'll lock you up all by yourself, and reserve a box outside the basement for your brother and sister, who do not seem to think that I ought to be feeding you at an unearthly hour. (Or if they do, they're sensibly keeping very quiet about it!)
She Who Knows That You Aren't Actually Starving To Death