in the wee small hours of the morning...

I have a sick boy. Not a very sick boy, I hasten to add, (and never forget to give thanks) but a miserable, snuffly, hot, blocked-up, sad boy, who had trouble sleeping last night.

So, we co-slept.

Now, I'm emphatically not a co-sleeper. I have nothing against it, but I just can't do it. I love the idea of all my chicks being in the one basket, so to speak, but my kids and I, we're just not good at it. The MOTH is - he snores away merrily whenever we have tiny guests in our bed. Me? Not so much.

You see, I'm a very selfish sleeper. I like to be completely still and not touching anybody before I can go to sleep. The Tween comes in for a cuddle after a bad dream every now and then, but the Toddler is like me, in that he really prefers his own bed. Unless he's sick.

I firmly believe that a sick, scared or miserable child deserves to be in his/her parents' bed. I just really wish I could get some sleep, any sleep while they are sharing my bed. And I have to tell you, while no one wants to wake me up for no good reason, if my kids need me in the night, I am Florence Nightingale and Elise Keaton all rolled into one. I am the best (she said modestly) night-time Mummy in the world.

So last night, as the MOTH slumbered peacefully beside me, and the Tween dreamed lovely dreams in her room, the Toddler and I snuggled, cuddled, sang songs, cried (him, but I wanted to), had little chats about how in the world Daddy can sleep through this racket (ok, maybe that was just me), and generally got each other through the rough old night.

One doctor's visit later, and tonsillitis was confirmed for my poor little munchkin. And right now, the Toddler is fast asleep in his own cot, in his own room.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed myself.