For the past five and a half years I’ve craved sleep like a mad man and yet can never get enough. This is probably because I’m such a push over. My kids and I have the worst sleeping habits.
I’ve allowed this.
They know how to play me.
They know if they do something cute, new, intelligent or loving that it will let them get away with keeping me up.
Cuddles in bed? No problem. New words? Absolutely. Booby filled virus-fighting immune-boosting fiesta? Normally not a problem. Want to practice walking? I suppose so.
I’m weak. I love them and I revel in their adventures and I want them to know I’m always here for them. I just want to be able to whinge about being tired while I’m at it.
I know it’s my fault although they certainly don’t make it easy to ignore them.
Somehow at 3:30 this morning, my youngest found a book. It’s only five pages but she’s 19 months old so it’s taken us twenty minutes of flipping backwards and forwards as she reads it to me. She’s building her vocabulary, we are bonding and she pokes me when I fall asleep.
“The Wiggles learn about colours.”
“Uggguh.” “Yes wiggle.” *turn page*.
“Hat.” “Very good.” “Ugguh.” “Yes there’s a wiggle on this page too.” *turn page*.
“Ibbid.” “Yes a froggy. Ribbit ribbit.” “Ball”. “That’s an apple.” “Ball.” “Yes an apple looks like a ball.” *turn page*
“Hat.” “Yay.” “Ugguh.” *awkward silence and a poke….* “oh yeah wiggle.” *turn page*
“CAR!!!!!” *turn page*
“Roar!” “Dorothy the dinosaur.” “Ball” “Apple.” *hope turns page from green page to red page and points at apple*, “ball!”
“CAR!!!!!!!!” *turn back to blue page*
Repeat for twenty minutes.
Did I mention it’s only five pages?
Who’s teaching who?