Here’s me whingeing again, after another sleep deprived night. I’m getting up into torture-should-be-dead-or-at-least-very-loopy figures now.
I always dread bedtime because the children turn into sneaky little yoyos for the first half hour after lights out – up and down, up and down until I get nasty/pleady/bribey.
And just when you think you’ve hit the sleeping-through trifecta perfecta, some stinking possum dares to breathe heavily near smallest’s window and send her into terrors that have her screeching through the house, usually when I’m just drifting off after some blissful time with my book.
And just like that, we are doing the bed hop all over again. Another reason to render possums an endangered species.
Every night for the last fortnight we’ve had to endure being woken by a small whimpering apparition every time I’m falling off wakefulness into lovely soft clouds of sleep (she seems to know precisely how long to leave so that you’re at your most vulnerable to fright or fury). Eventually we just give in and drag her into bed with us, which means sleeping with bits of small child in your face or digging into your back. And at around 2 am she is wide awake, thinking it’s helpful to pat our cheeks and breathe in our faces.
By morning there’s only a small percentage of us in rightful bedplaces.
Last night I soothed myself with internally singing the beautiful Brahm’s Lullaby, which by about midnight had morphed into this:
(Big thanks to Johannes Brahms for his wonderful melody and apologies for my lyrical and hysterical distortions).