“you’re rubbish at lie-ins”
February 6, 2011 § 5 Comments
I was really looking forward to this morning. I didn’t go to bed until midnight (tragic that I now consider this a late night), so confident was I that hours of dream-filled sleep stretched out in front of me.
At 3am, 1yo starts crying. I get up to settle him (I am happy to undertake this nightly task as his cries always wake me and then I need to go to the loo. Other Half just grumbles if he gets out of bed, then 5 minutes later off I trundle towards the bathroom.)
At 3.30am, I retrieve the cats from behind the curtain, throw them out and shut the door.
At 6.30am, 3yo climbs in next to me and puts his ice cube feet on my shins. We have a pleasant cuddle, then OH is good to his word and takes him downstairs.
At 8am, OH appears in the doorway and places a warm, cuddly, messy-haired 1yo into my arms. He then re-appears with a cup of tea.
This may all sound lovely, especially to new mums who aren’t getting a wink of sleep. But hold on, I normally get around 6 hours sleep, and I’ve certainly put the childcare hours in this week/month/year. Since when did 8am constitute a lie-in?! I moan a little bit about the fact that on Saturday’s OH gets undisturbed sleep until 9.30/10. The reply is “but you go to bed much earlier than me! And anyway, you were probably awake. You’re rubbish at lie-ins.” The fact that I may be awake I think is irrelevant. I could be day-dreaming, sneaking Grazia or French braiding my bloody leg-hairs. The fact is this is my time to hide away and get some peace.
Then Doris dog appears. She runs into the room, throws herself on her back on the rug, and contorts around snorting, looking for a scratch.
10 seconds later, it is the turn of 3yo. He skips into the doorway wearing nothing but his vest. He piles storage boxes on top of each other and switches my light on, twisting the dimmer setting up to ‘blinding.’ He then does a kind of Irish jig across the bedroom floor, and launches full-volume into “there was an old man called Michael Finnegan, he grew whiskers on his chinnigan.” Pauses. “JOIN IN MUMMY!!” I take up, croakily, “the wind came out and blew them inagain…” and at that point 1yo straddles his legs around my neck and plonks his rather full, damp nappy down on my forehead.
“Ahh,” I think. “The start of another quiet Sunday.”