Sharing a bed with a 6-year-old sux

I never let my kids sleep in my bed. I bought them queen-sized ones so that if they’re sick Husband can sleep in theirs.

But somehow I find myself at my parents’ house, in their spare bedroom, in a double bed, with Sprog 2.

The first night went OK because Mum gifted me a sleeping tablet. I passed out and woke up eight hours later. What happened during the dark hours in-between is a mystery. It was bliss.

But last night Mum wouldn’t gift me a sleeping tablet because we’d been drinking at the pub together after going to see This Is 40 (loved it, hilarious) while my Dad babysitted. Wowser.

I snuck into the spare bedroom to find Sprog 2 sprawled over three-quarters of the bed. And it went rapidly downhill from there.

She snored.

She swished the taut, crispy sheets with her heels like they were musical instruments.

When I lay on my stomach she rolled to face me and exhaled festy middle-of-the-night breath on me.

Between every sleep cycle, she frantically scratched her excema like she was sandpapering an old door.

I woke shivering at regular intervals when she stole the taut, crispy sheets.

Every 10 minutes she jabbed me with her pointy little elbows or knees. One time, just to mix it up, she inserted both her feet under my shoulder blades.

At 4.30am she started jiggling and moaning because she needed to wee. We had a hissed conversation about her going to the toilet and her refusing because it was dark and me insisting because she was jiggling and moaning.

At 7am she stretched and yawned and woke up refreshed, rousing me in the process. Her angelic, kewpie-doll face smiling at me narrowly saved her from a violent end.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I am stiff and sore and cross and headachey.

And in three hours I’m going ice skating. Awesome. Can’t wait. I’m going to be a barrel.