Eliza was ill yesterday, so she didn’t go to nursery and no doubt slept much of the day, but she bounced back last night with the speed only a 4 year old can. Right as rain she was, ticketyboo. She had about a million stories, the casualty of bedtime duties falling between mum and dad. I was late home from work so him indoors had made a start on bedtime. Needless to say she wasn’t actually asleep until about 8.30. So you would think that this would make her tired wouldn’t you? In fact every other night this week she’s woken up in the night, woken me up but then slept until I’ve left the house at 7am. This morning I’m at home because I’m going to visit a school and I naively thought this late night might result in another later morning. Maybe I’d get an extra hour to file down my frazzled edges.
But it didn’t. Of course.
At 4.30am it started. She’d dropped Milo out of her bed. Then at 4.45 am she needed a wee. Then at 5am she’d given up on sleep declaring she wasn’t tired.
“But it’s 5 in the morning. It’s still sleep time, go back to sleep. Please.”
“But Mummy you said it’s morning.”
“I meant it’s too early to get up, now go back to sleep.”
“But I can’t.”
And all I could see above the duvet was my little girl, with her cute fringe framing her beautiful face and I thought to myself that I just don’t see enough of that little face and so I caved in, as all good mothers do. We went downstairs and watched telly, I slept a bit on the sofa and was woken every second minute to answer a question about the rain, or the garden, or the trees, or why squirrels can’t fly, just the usual stuff.
At about 7.30am I did what all good sleep deprived mothers do. I started crashing around the house loudly to wake up any lucky people who were still asleep.
Why should Eliza be the only one to enjoy doing that?