Mondays are for Sleeping

Oh how innocent does this baby look, tucked in in mummy's blanket, on mummy cushion, and in his own bed on a Sunday night! But there's a catch: His peaceful two hour nap was not scheduled, he's in his day clothes, and ancient nappy (by nappy standards), his nest is highly improvised, and by the time I try to go to bed, there's no bedding for me. And that's just for starters. The rest of the night goes like this:
10am: (I'm struggling to fit under a corner of my covers without disturbing the baby wrapped up in them) Both children wake up crying at the same time in different rooms and require immediate attention each. (At least I can now have my covers back.) I transfer Tara to my bed, which stops her crying. I grab Leo but instead of offering a cosy snuggle and a boobie, he gets a new nice clean bum and his pyjamas on his most unsnuggly changing station. He is furious and screams the house down. Tara dozes back off in the din. Back to bed.
10:20 to ca. 3am: the dear children take amazingly well coordinated turns at waking me half hourly. Tara celebrates snotty snuffle feasts on my right and refuses to blow her nose, and Leo kicks and wriggles as he struggles with trumps and burps.
3am to 5am: They swap afflictions. Leo snuffles and Tara wriggles. Being merely in the same bed, she has decided, is not close enough to mum. It's got to be a share of mummy's covers (already sharing with Leo), and she snuggles so hard that I'm half convinced she's grown another leg and two more knees. I extract her from the inside of my pyjama bottoms twice. It's somewhat inconvenient, if highly amusing (when considered in daylight, and in daylight only*).

Monday morning presents itself in a very typical mix of a very late nursery run (45 minutes this time), an uninviting pile of unfolded washing, and a very very cute and slightly tired baby boy who does not like doing tummy time very much at all.

If I close my eyes long enough, will it disappear?

Cheek to cheek with Peppa Pig

Count down to crying: two to three minutes tops.
There's only one thing to do. Back to bed with babe and boob. It's not the most efficient way of spending a morning (or day) but it is in line with a night full of... ahem... surprises. And it is, so it seems, a typical baby-days-Monday for Leo and his Mum. It's very snuggly and satisfying, tummy to tummy. Zzzzzzzz.

And here's Tara, my big wriggling snuffle monster. Monday night, and she can't sleep. Because her daddy is talking on the phone. Because Leo is "not letting her sleep" by snuffling somewhere else in the house. Because mummy left the room. Because she suddenly remembers we did not finish watching the one Charlie Lola episode that I told her in the morning we'd finish in the afternoon.
So I tell daddy off. I fetch Leo and "just stick a boob in," as Tara advises. I come back to sit on her chair. I promise more Charlie Lola in the morning. And I bring the musical teddy. Tara plays two rounds of teddy, then tucks him up next to her ver gently and says, "Look, mummy, Teddy is sleeping". Tara is not sleeping. She is hot, but peling the cvers off proves a dilemma as Teddy would get cold. I fetch Bunny, whom Father Cristmas brought and who actually is (meant to be) a lamb. Tara tucks Bunny up next to Teddy. "Mummy, everybody wants to be with me!" she observes at the growing multitude of friends, and with the sweetest modest, pleasantly surprised smile. "WHY?"
"Because they love you," I tell her, because just that minute I am incedibly in love with her. "Because we love you! Good night!" Bunny pipes in in my fluffy talking animal voice.

In a good story, Tara now nods off, with the sweetest smile on her face. Real Tara manages the smile, then her eyes plop open again. Leo is snuffling away at the boob somewhat loudly. "Mummy, is Leo awake?" Yes, I lie, hoping for the best. "I want to win!" she says, closes her eyes and races her sleeping baby brother to sleep.

Come 11pm, Tara, Teddy and Bunny are arriving in my bed. Truth is, I've been waiting for them. Truth is, I can't fall asleep without them. My wriggly snufflemonsters. And there's always another morning to ignore the washing and go back to sleep on. (Of course, if I were Tara, and folding the washing a competition, I'd do some ironing, folding and putting away first. But I'm me. The stuff is likely to still be there next Sunday night.)

And on Wednesday, Tara will be 3 1/2 years old.

* I'm lying for dramatic porposes. Actually, extracting her from my nightwear is amusing even in the dark.