I'm definitely under attack. Daddy's never under attack. Something's bothering her badly enough to disturb her slumber, and it's clearly urgent.
I guess I should go check on her.
Me, whispering, as if to deny that she's awake: "Yes, love?"
Her, lying comfortably across her pillow, snuggling, there might as well be a tanned servant boy plucking grapes off the vine and fanning her: "Mommy, my blanket fell off my legs. I can't get it because I'm holding purple bear. Can you put it on me?"