Perhaps Fred is having an affair or, worse still, has eaten the last Kinder Bueno
Became Julie My Parent, A Swore I Jay: Blind Child I Before I The Would Never Bed Have Me In With
Recently I read a description of the late Princess Margaret’s morning routine, which consisted of waking at nine and reading the papers in bed until noon when a lady-in-waiting would run her a bath before she dressed and began her day with a boozy three-course meal.
While it is hard to recount such a leisurely schedule without picturing the inimitable Helena Bonham Carter (I don’t care what the critics say, but for me, is a historical document up there with the Magna Carta in terms of cultural significance), I also totally get it. Because, like Princess Margaret, I have always loved my bed, though lately, it has become home to an interloper.
Before I became a parent, I swore blind I would never have my child in the bed with me. It’s a slippery slope, I would say to myself, smug in the knowledge that I was winning at hypothetical parenting.
Of course, all that went out of the window when Ted came of an age. He is at his happiest star-fishing in the middle of mammy’s bed, preferably with mammy enjoying as little room as possible, perched precariously on the edge of the mattress and clinging on to the remnants of duvet like Leo di Caprio clinging to that lump of wood in .
Ted has cleverly manoeuvred his way into that most coveted of spots and has done so with military-like precision. Criminal genius that he is, this two-year-old Machiavelli now has us right where he wants us.
Staying with my parents this week, Ted has been particularly smitten with the sleeping situation, which has involved a slightly higher thread count.
Propped up by three pillows and a selection of books, I spent every day coaxing him out of bed with the promise of Play-Doh - much like Princess Margaret had to be coaxed out of bed with the promise of wine at lunch.
Circa 7.30 pm, I am fully sure most parents put their child to bed with the best of intentions, but come the middle of the night, when their toddler is crying out for mammy and daddy’s seomra leaba, I am also sure most end up giving into the two-year-old terrorist’s demands, in the hopes that they might be able to get some bit of kip.
We are two years in, and I am still wrecked.
Most days, I meet a parent who is a little further down the line than me, gleefully saying, 'it doesn’t get any easier'. Their words are so inspirational that I can’t believe this uplifting sentiment hasn’t been captured in the form of cheery fridge magnets up and down the land.
For now, the only thing we have going for us is that Ted is still technically barricaded in his cot and so is still relatively constrained when it comes to his capacity to make a getaway and head for the parental bed. Ted has been known to go full-on Ocean’s 11 on occasion.
He has positioned his teddies more than once to give him a leg-up and help him vault the sides. I don’t know if there is anything more terrifying than being awoken by a toddle, standing over you in the darkness, whispering the words ‘Come on! Come on!’ when you went to sleep, fully convinced he was safely behind bars.
And, of course, it’s adorable having him in the bed for cuddles and kisses, and at the risk of sounding like an Aerosmith song, it is lovely just watching him while he’s sleeping. The problem comes in the form of tiny, pointy elbows to the eye socket, an accidental kick to the cheek, and persistent tugs of the hair when the Prince has run out of milk.
Nine nights out of 10, we are awoken to Ted hollering from his room in the wee hours. Invariably Fred, also known as Darling Husband, will disappear and return momentarily with a very happy small man who officially owns the night in this house.
The recent news of extended pub-opening hours had DH yearning for the days when the nights were ours, to spend losing keys, wallets and phones, all the while scoffing garlic-cheese chips and trying to get the shift to the soundtrack of 'Mr. Brightside'.
"Imagine - we used to be getting in at this time," DH muses at 4am, as we assemble Ted in the bed between us with various accoutrements: Ducky, a bottle, his blanket, and most importantly his two 'pillows' - mum and dad.
I must confess that DH has been knocking it out of the park when it comes to getting up to the little man during the night. He does so with a cheery disposition that makes me question if he is somehow compensating for something - perhaps he is having an affair or, worse still, eaten the last Kinder Bueno.
Surely nobody without an agenda could be that happy when roused in the middle of the night?
"It’s lovely having him in the bed though, isn’t it," DH whispers, laying Ted down beside me.
Delirious and half asleep, I make a noise which sounds like a concur, and the three of us cuddle in beside one another as the clock reads something unearthly. Yes, it turns out I have inadvertently married a man who is, at his core, just a happy person, even when he’s half asleep.
It’s something we have agreed to work on as a couple.