Trouble is, it’s now almost 2am. I could don my running gear and go for a quick jog round
Of course I’m not going to. Instead I lie there and examine all the random thoughts that are flying through my wide awake head.
I hope that’s a burglar. Something/someone is walking around on the landing. Please let it be a burglar. Please take whatever you want without making too much of a mess. Please go downstairs. Don’t waken the killer guard dog. Because if it’s not a burglar, it’s one of the kids sleepwalking or on the way to the bathroom. Please let it be a burglar because if it is one of the kids I will have to extricate myself from my warm nest and help them back to theirs. At least with a burglar, they can help themselves.
How many years would I do for homicide? No amount of kicking, poking or shoving is encouraging Mister Husband to roll over and change position. There is nothing for it; I just might have to kill him. I place a pillow gently (I said gently!) over his face and hold it there gently (I said gently) for five seconds. A mild struggle ensues. Followed by that equally annoying grunting and exaggerated lip licking thing with a bit of teeth grinding thrown in for good measure just to impress upon me how annoyed he is at having his sleep interrupted. Disclaimer: If you try this, I must stress that you remember to remove the pillow.
Chocolate voices. Earlier on that day a share bag of giant chocolate buttons was opened. I haven’t forgotten it. It’s down there, I can feel it, hear it calling to me through the floorboards. “Come and get me,” it says. “With a nice cup of tea. It will only take ten minutes.”
That’s who she is! The actress whose face was vaguely familiar 17 hours ago, and whose name escaped me, comes rushing through my frontal cortex with a clarity that has me sitting bolt upright in the scratcher, snapping my fingers in an “eureka!” moment. I feel compelled to wake Mister Husband to tell him. And now that I’m wide awake, I may as well go downstairs for some of those chocolate buttons.
Can I hold it till morning? Nothing worse than being woken from deep, delicious slumber by a bladder looking to be emptied. My own. If it’s 2am I have no choice but to answer the call of nature. 5am, however, is a different animal. There’s less than two hours to go before rising. Be grand. And I am until it comes to swinging my legs out of the bed. It is necessary to sit still for a moment; if I stand up immediately things could get messy. Four kids will do that to your plumbing system. Too much information? Oh-kaay.
More things that go bump. But this time it definitely is one of the boys. Has he fallen from the bunk bed or is he impersonating a baby elephant on its way to the bathroom. Crap! He’s crying which means he’s fallen. I wait to see if the body beside me reacts. But now I’m awake I realise I too need the bathroom and I’ve lost.
And another thing. You crank open an eyelid to check the time, smile fuzzily because it’s 5am you’ve got two hours left in the scratcher. Then bam! Literally three minutes later it’s time to get up.
How does that work?