Just because enough time has elapsed that it becomes the norm.
Like saying dude.
You start off by saying it to your mates
as a laugh, a hilarious nod to Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.
And before you know it, it’s slipped into your
vocabulary and you’re saying it to your boss.
The same has happened in our house.
Except Nancy’s the dude.
And the boss is our bed.
The metaphor doesn’t entirely work, but
all will become clear when you realise it’s down to an average of four hours
sleep over several weeks.
Four hours.
Margaret Thatcher survived on four hours
and look how that worked out for the country.
About a month ago Nancy woke in the
middle of the night standing up in her cot, screaming for mummy. Ben and I
tagged teamed it for a couple of hours, reading her stories and singing ‘Show me the way to go home.’
Until it became clear that the only
thing that would genuinely sooth her was to come into bed with us.
Now, mid-heat wave, there was no way our
titchy, not sure it’s even a queen size, bed was going to accommodate three people.
Especially when one sleeps diagonally with her feet in your throat (Nancy- not
me.)
So Ben slept on the sofa.
Fast-forward four weeks and Nancy
habitually wakes up asking to come in with me.
And now refers to the sofa as ‘Daddy’s
bed.’
And however hard we try, she point blank
refuses to go back in her bed once she’s woken up.
Although it is lovely to have a cuddle
with her, it’s not so great to be woken with someone prizing open your eyelids,
breathy whispering, ‘wake up mummy.’
So it’s time to go back to the books.
Literally.
I am going to dust off all the literature
that’s currently used as a makeshift bedside table and gen up on sleep training.
Because for one thing, a two-seater IKEA sofa
is not a comfy bed for a 6’ 4’’ man.
And secondly, after the best part of two
years, I just want an unbroken night’s sleep.
Is that too much to ask for, dude?
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