Some mornings I feel as though I have only scratched the surface of sleep. For some reason, I consider Bernard to be sleeping through; perhaps because for a few nights, a few weeks ago, he did. In fact, one Thursday, he slept for 13 hours straight.
But it’s more normal for me to go into his room a couple of times each night, to shush him back to sleep. And in the early hours, I might as well just lie down on the pull-out bed beside him, to save me coming back again. If I do that, he sometimes sleeps until 6.15. And he sometimes notices I’m there, and comes down to snuggle in with me. Awww. Apart from the fact that I don’t sleep much, wrapped around a hot toddler, on a narrow chair-bed near the floor.
Thank goodness, Pete takes over from 6.30, and I go back to sleep, which would be wonderful if it didn’t have to end. It takes longer and longer for me to become human in the morning, and I longingly anticipate the day I can be nice to everyone again; Bernard will hardly know me, when I get enough sleep to be myself.