Spoons

I’m a happy bunny today! Babe slept all night, like a rock, and so did I. Too tired and rock-like to argue with Other Half about who was crossing the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, or whether or not it was fair of me to need to sleep in a star-shape or the recovery position (my two favourites). Grandad has been to stay for two nights, which means that Other Half and I have been sleeping in the same bed for three (clean bed made up in spare room night before of course :)).

Do real couples actually spoon, I wonder? Don’t they get as hot as hell? The most I can tolerate is other half resting his foot on mine – and that only works when I’m making like a star. If anyone so much as lays a finger on me when I’m in the recovery position I growl like a bear.

Anyway… it has been a joy to see Babe playing with my dad. He is the ultimate eccentric, beyond unorthodox and as funny and as annoying as you’d wish any person to be. I wasn’t sure how either would find the encounter. But seeing them together (dad lying on the cold kitchen tiles because that’s where Babe was sitting and shouting ‘book!’) has reminded me of many good childhood memories of my dad. Fun and laughter in abundance. Never, ever, dull:

Party games which stretched kids to their physical and mental limits; Christmas encounters with Santa’s dwarves on the top of multi-storey car parks; long car drives wiggling Vik inhalers stuck up his nose and waving at other drivers; ghost stories on holiday that had all us bundling in with him for the night (because he had scared himself witless) – and I’ve never heard another dad scream, ‘Run for your lives!’, drop his kids’ hands and hurtle himself into a parade of Rhododendrons at the approach of a flock of Canadian geese in the park. One day I will write a series of children’s books, full of these stories. They will be called ‘Adventures with Mr D’, and will make us both rich and famous.

It’s a shame that Babe doesn’t see more of his extended family. What child doesn’t revel in the attention? There’s no such thing as too much love. I realise how different things would be if we lived near Other Half’s family. Aunts, uncles, cousins in abundance. It would give me a nervous breakdown, as I’m typically English and like my own space, but there’d be no such thing as childcare worries, or lack of sleep. My sister-in-law gave birth a few weeks after I did, and the females of the family (females, yes, and they all work) took it in turns to sleep in a chair by her bed in hospital for the days she was in; her mum slept on the sofa for the next two weeks to make sure she got enough sleep and her sister now looks after the little boy every afternoon so that she could return to work. I don’t think she’s had to cook a meal since little Alexandro was born. As I say, it’s all swings and roundabouts, and there’s a lot more I could discuss on the subject, but it’s interesting that in this country you’re not allowed to have anyone stay the night with you in hospital. Great start.

Back to Babe and our sleep. Not only did he sleep through ‘til six, he then slept in bed with us for an hour until seven! Unheard of! Rejoice! This means he’ll be due his nap when I pick him up from nursery at lunch-time. Hoorah! Of course it also means that between six at seven I didn’t dare move, and at half past six had to wake Other Half without stirring Babe. Ten prods with my big toe did it. He slithered out and landed gently on the floor. Picked up his clothes and crawled around the bed, so that if Babe opened his eyes, he wouldn’t see him there and howl. We held hands briefly, and he was off.

So, you may have inferred that the deadlock at home is broken. I’m not sure if either of us gave in first - I think we just decided to have a good shag and then everything was ok again. Other Half immediately perked up (so to speak), and cleaned the house for me, as I was “feeling extremely poorly and unloved”, and then gave me a lovely massage, as I was “still fit to drop” and then Babe and I watched through the window as he hoovered the car.

We have yet to fully the resolve the issue of whether I am his ‘number one’ or not – aha! Now I remember, that’s how the argument started: when he said Babe was his priority, at which I hit the roof and bought a massive t-shirt with ‘Number 2’ emblazoned on the front – but I might let it go for a while as, at the end of the day, actions speak louder than words, and he’s being extremely nice at the moment.

Roll on, weekend! Aubergines ahoy!