Our two-year old woke up at half past five this morning. HALF PAST FIVE! So I’m going to write a post to remind myself why we ever had children in the first place and what makes them worth it in a bid to avoid sobbing sloppily and dribbling exhausted tears and snot into my morning coffee.
He was standing up in his bed rubbing his eyes with the backs of dimpled hands, with the imprint of his covers still on his cherubic little face and his hair standing up in all directions (did I mention it was only half five?).
His beautiful eyes lit up when he saw me and he confidently held out his little arms to be picked up and cuddled (he refused to lie down and go back asleep and when I tried to make him he bucked and writhed in his bed like the girl possessed in The Exorcist).
He gave me warm, sleepy, delicious kisses when I attempted to soothe him back to sleep (when I left the room to go and get back into bed, he screeched ‘MUMMMEEEEE!’ so loudly that I thought he would burst a blood vessel).
My heartstrings involuntarily twanged as he cried my name (his temper at not getting his own way was unrivalled; imagine a wasps’ nest full of hornets with PMT that has just been vigorously kicked then shaken).
At quarter to six, after I reluctantly gave in before he woke the other two up, he wrapped his warm limbs around me like a particularly affectionate marsupial and clung onto me like I was a lifeboat that had just saved him from drowning (I got to him in the nick of time; he was just taking a deep lungful of air, ready to start round two of blood-curdling screaming).
He informed me when we came downstairs that his milk was ‘hosh’ with his cute, heart-warming lisp (it wasn’t f#*~ing ’hosh’ because I’d checked it on the inside of my wrist).
He snuggled into me to drink his milk and I breathed in the heady mix of baby shampoo, dried saliva and warm skin (he repeatedly asked for Mickey Mouse on TV and I had to suppress the urge to scream, ‘It’s only ten to f#*~ing six! Mickey Mouse isn’t on yet because we’re still on sodding NIGHT TIME programmes!’).
He pressed his nose into mine and cheekily mimicked ‘Sshh!’ with a fat, dimpled finger over his lips because I didn’t want him to wake his brothers (followed by a demonic smile, smug in the knowledge of a game well played and a battle won: Mummy and Daddy – nil, toddler, one).
Happy Monday, everyone! Hope your day started better than mine :)