So. Baby. It’s time to chat.
Well, you’re not a baby, and that’s sort of the point. You’re two years, one month and one week old, and it’s two years, one month and one week since I last had proper sleep. Yes, yes, I know there was that month before Christmas – believe me, I think about that a lot, and wonder what prompted you to sleep and what caused you to stop again.
But overall, for such a very long time now, I’ve been doing without.
It wasn’t so bad when you were an actual baby – in hindsight, I worried about it more than I should. But you’re two now. And we need sleep, your dad and I. We need to be able to go to bed at night with a reasonable expectation that we might have a full night’s sleep.
Or at least, that if you do wake up and you do insist on coming into our bed, that you sleep when you get there. That you don’t spend two solid hours singing and tapping your heels on the headboard and climbing across your dad to try to reach his phone and sitting on my back because … well, actually, what was that about?
That you don’t attempt to wake your sister at 4am to play. That you don’t roar crying when your dad prevents you from leaving our room to go into hers. That you don’t try to go downstairs at 5am to watch television. And that you don’t choose five minutes before the alarm goes off to finally go to sleep – that’s just too much to bear. Grown-ups are sensitive like that.
I forgive you every morning – how can I resist the kisses and the smile and the tousled blonde hair and the contented “My mummy. My mummy” murmurings that accompany the cuddles when you do wake up.
And I’ll always forgive you. And there are no promises or threats or bribes or consequences. I have nothing to offer, I’m just begging; pleading with you; it’s time to sleep.
(*or learn to go downstairs on your own and put on the television)