Morning

It is a miracle that small boys ever grow up to be men.

This morning nobody had to go to school.  Tilly is still rather grey faced. Tallulah’s teachers are on strike, and nobody will have Oscar.

It was an absolute luxury to be able to get into bed without setting the alarm.  I know I get to do it on weekends, but there is something extra decadent about not having to do it in the week.

I was shattered last night, properly shattered.  I fell asleep watching the Culture Show special on the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, and rather than struggle to stay awake, as is my wont, I gave in and went to bed at half past nine.  I remember thinking; ‘I will never get to sleep now’, just before I fell into an unconscious, snoring mass.

All things being equal, I would probably have slept until at least half nine this morning, giving me twelve hours of glorious, uninterrupted, health giving sleep.

Alas. It was not to be.  At seven o’clock this morning a small boy’s large voice drifted up the stairs:

‘Mama?’

‘Mamaaaaaaaa?’

‘MAMAAAAAAAAA!’

I rolled out of bed and growled off towards the stairs.

I croaked (my voice is still 70% Bonnie Tyler (Total Eclipse of the Heart), 15% Capstan Full Strength, 10% adolescent boy, 5% normal.

‘WHAT?’

A wavery plea:

‘But Mama! I had to wake you.  I cannot find my blue teddy bear.  I cannot find him anywhere.’

I smack my forehead with my palm in the international gesture for WHAT THE FUCK?

I growl.

‘Play with something else. Learn to live without him. Be quiet. I am going back to bed.  Do not wake me up again unless it is an emergency.’

I stomp off back to the warm delights of the duvet.

Twenty minutes later:

‘Mamaaaaaaa! I have done a pooh. I have wiped my bottom. I just need you to check that I have wiped it properly.’

I give up.

I get up.

I inspect bottoms.

I thank the lord for the sleep I already did get and try to be grateful.

I plunge my head face first into the Lavazza.

This is where you find me…

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