I slept with Darth Vader last night. It was awful. The heavy breathing drove me insane. I’m never doing it again. I’ve been sharing a bed with Sprog 2 at my parents’ house. I thought it would be less hassle – no pumping of air-mattresses, no washing of extra bed linen. The first 30 minutes weren’t too bad. She looked so adorable sleeping beside me, I could have eaten her with a spoon. By 1.45am, I wanted to weep. It was torture: Darth Vader-style breathing, tossing, arm flinging, kicking, eczema-related scratching that sounded like someone grating parmesan beside me … and then my hangover kicked in. Nothing worse than still being awake for your hangover’s arrival. My parents have moved to a new house, so I didn’t know where to find the medical supplies. I just had to lie there, suffering, chanting “nothing, nothing, nothing” to myself over and over. But my sleep mantra was no match for nausea and a restless Sprog. I should have known better. Husband and I have enforced a very strict rule since the birth of the Sprogs – they’re not allowed in the marital bed. If one of them is really sick, Husband bunks with them (I’m not good with spew or sympathy). If they have a nightmare, they’re reassured and sent back to their own beds. I’ve seen what happens to parents who let their rugrats infiltrate the marital bed, and it’s never good. OK, the spare bed in my parents’ house isn’t marital, but the general concept remains the same. I don’t care how much hassle it is to blow up that air-mattress and wash the extra bed linen. It’s happening. And I’m picking up some Unisom supplies for good measure. I want to be thoroughly medicated and completely unconscious for as long as possible tonight.
TONIGHT’S MENU: Barbecued chook? Dip and bikkies?