Some mornings are blissful. I’m woken up by the soft sound of little feet on the carpet, two small, warm bodies sliding into bed. I’ll lie with my arms around them and kiss their heads and we’ll talk about the day ahead. It’s the loveliest way to wake up.
Today was not one of those mornings.
The door slammed open and two grim children marched in, looking like they needed a couple of double espressos. They clambered into bed and immediately began instilling a rigid system of apartheid over the bed, the pillows and, indeed, my body. There’s nothing like trying to gain consciousness to the feeling of two people pulling your limbs about to make sure they have equal mummy real estate.
Matters didn’t improve when they lay down. Fingers and toes kept creeping over the dividing line. Insulting looks were given or implied. Old grudges were brought up and raked over at length.
I think the point I cracked was when I ended up starfished on the bed, arms and legs rigidly holding them apart as they glared at each other, eyes slitted and teeth bared, ready to fight to the death over who got the honour of blowing a raspberry on my tummy.
“That’s IT! I am getting up and leaving you two to it! And don’t you dare get blood on the sheets!”
I stomped off to put the kettle on, keeping an ear out for bloodcurdling screams. But…. nothing. When I peeked in they were comfortably reading storybooks.
My daughter smiled at me beatifically when she saw me. “Since you’re up, mum, you might as well cook some eggs.”
I think I just got played. Fair power to them.