For the last week I have been sleeping on a mattress between my children’s beds. When I was newly pregnant I read Miriam Stoppard’s “Pregnancy and Birth Book” in which she wrote that for about two years she slept on the floor between her children’s beds. I laughed out loud.
I don’t laugh about things like that anymore.
When one of the boys is poorly, I usually end up on the mattress. It saves staggering repeatedly out of bed to answer the pitiful cries from their room. And to their credit, once they are better they don’t usually expect me to linger in their room at night.
But it is late now, both boys are poorly and today has been a long, crabby, tantrum-y day. I haven’t had a whole night’s sleep in nine days and I’m feeling it. Eldest Son has been calling for me on and off since he went to bed at 7.30. All I want is to have a cup of tea in peace. Just me and my cup of tea.
Oh I know, I can really whine, can’t I?
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