The chap I married is not a morning person. He takes exception every morning to having a five year old creeping into his room between five and seven and asking in a booming voice,
“Is it waking up time yet?”
He typically does a strong impression of a corpse at this point in order to not have to deal with said child. I can physically feel his body freeze into rigor mortis as the door handle starts to turn.
My home looks like it was ransacked by aliens, my skin is pale, the laundry basket is neglected and is shouting its annoyance by allowing underpants and uniforms to spill out under the lid and thus mocking my incompetence. Last nights dishes are still piled in the sink growing a soft covering of fur on the remains of that evenings ready meal. The baby is sporting the heavy nappy look as I try to imagine contemplating the task of changing her and the twins look like they have been dueling with the Gruffalo as their faces assume a bruised look from the remains of yesterdays face painting.
Sleep is something most parents have a love hate relationship with. We would all love more of it and hate having it disturbed.
When your bundle of joy comes along you accept that your hours laid in a soft, comfy bed under a cosy duvet will be less than before and this is a sacrifice you are willing to make in return for a beautiful baby all of your own.
However most of us see loss of sleep as a short term investment when having a baby; so why does it feel that an eight hour stretch in bed is equivalent to finding the holy grail in mummydomland.
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