On a Sunny Morning
"Mummy, I brought my blanket for you!"
A gargantuan effort results in one of my bleary eyes opening. I reach for the phone. It's 4.53am.
OB is bouncing about at the side of the bed, shoving his blanket into my face. The morning sun is streaming in through the alarmingly ineffective curtains and there's a mobile trailer in the corner of the room with two women in it, cooking and selling IKEA meatballs.
Ok, I might have dreamed that last bit.
But they do smell good.
Of course, I should get up, take OB back to his own room and gently explain that, although it's clearly as light as midday outside, it is still actually the middle of the night and he should go back to sleep for at least three hours.
But I don't. Because I can't seem to speak or move. So instead I drag him into the bed with me and we settle down together.
That lasts five minutes. What follows is 20 minutes of OB wriggling, climbing over me, getting in and out of bed repeatedly, standing at the window shouting "Look at this Mummy!" and generally ruining any chance of getting back to sleep.
During this time I may or may not have purchased a steaming portion of meatballs from the two women in the corner. They were delicious.
It's nearly 5.20am. At this point OB strikes up a new clamour. He is starving and thirsty. I heave myself out of bed and down the stairs and return with a snack and some water in a no-spill cup.
I see that the meatball women have gone.
OB is keen to go downstairs and begin the day, so I put the TV onto CBeebies for a few seconds to demonstrate that, yes, indeed it is still night time - look CBeebies hasn't even started yet!
Then I lay down the law. It's 5.30am and I think we all need a bit more sleep. OB can either settle down and try to sleep in my bed, or go back to his own bed. He chooses my bed. So we settle down and I drift off again.
Seconds later I am woken by the annoying sound of someone's baby crying and crying. Why doesn't someone see to that baby? Can't they hear how loud it is?
Oh, wait, it's my baby.
I reach for the phone again. 5.45. OB is fast asleep next to me, completely undisturbed by Baby Girl's fantastically loud morning chorus right next to the bed.
I get up and feed her and change her. Then I settle her back in the basket. She smiles at me and goes back to sleep - that's not a dream, it's just what she's like! When I turn back to my bed I notice that OB is now sprawled across two thirds of it, still fast asleep.
With supreme physical effort I manage to arrange myself prone in the oddly-shaped space left to me by my son, who has apparently morphed into an octopus. It's surprisingly uncomfortable. I think there's probably no chance of falling asleep again and, at nearly 6am, maybe I should just give in and get up.
Suddenly, OB is standing next to the bed wearing one of my t-shirts like a maxi dress and saying something about a swimming pool. I look over to the corner - the meatball ladies aren't there. This is not a dream. It's 6.45 and time to bow to the inevitable.
Good morning everybody!