My husband is away at his work Christmas party so I settle into a night at home with my baked potato and an episode of Grand Designs.
I decide to retire to bed early with a pile of unread magazines. The house is blissfully quiet and as I update myself on the latest celebrity gossip, the stresses and strains of motherhood momentarily drift away.
Just as I switch off the light, my daughter appears. “Mummy, I just wanted to check you weren’t feeling lonely,” she says. She looks longingly at the space beside me. I pull back the covers and in she climbs. I drift off to the sound of her voice running through her class register alphabetically.
The pounding of small feet running along the landing into my bedroom suddenly wakes me. The Toddler appears beside the bed; his face inches away from mine. “I need the loo,” he announces. He hops from side to side shrieking that he needs my help. I relent and prop myself up against the bathroom wall trying to keep my eyes closed. “Can I have my breakfast?” he asks. I quickly try to dampen his eagerness to start the day. He begins to cry. I scoop him up fearful that he might wake the Baby and settle him in bed beside my daughter. He wriggles and kicks for the next hour or so but eventually we drift back to sleep.
Suddenly another small figure runs into the room and makes a giant leap onto the bed. It is the six-year-old mumbling something about Sarah Jane’s adventures. I curl up on the very edge of the bed embraced tightly by the Toddler.
Just as I am beginning to drift off again I hear a familiar noise. It is intermittent at first and then more constant. The Baby is awake. I glance at the clock. It is 4.30am. I briefly consider surrendering and going downstairs to prepare the lunch boxes. After settling the Baby I head back to my room to discover the three other children asleep, sprawled across the bed. With not an inch of mattress to spare I head back to my son’s now vacant bed and clamber in.
If I am lucky I can get another hour and a half in before they work out where I am.
