The Cold Shoulder

I’m lying on the very edge of my bed, precariously balanced between falling out and murdering the two people in the bed with me.

I’m frozen. I can no longer feel anything from my shoulder down.

I look behind me to see my son doing and impression of a sleeping star fish and my husband doing a very realistic impression of the man who stole ALL THE DUVET. He has also constructed a very clever wall-like  unbreachable barrier out of pillows to separate himself from the epileptic ferret that is our son…Donald Trump’s influence must be stronger than I thought!

So I lie here unable to sleep with the cold, cursing myself for wearing a vest top in bed, too tired to get out and find a blanket, and too fearful of waking the sleeping starfish and going through another twenty minute kick-groan-kick-turn routine before he finally settles back. That’s it, I’m going to have to address this, to find some way of enouraging him to stay in his own bed.

When morning finally comes I decide that the promise of Lego is the only thing that might seal the deal.

But no…big fat tears spill down his face as I mention the need to stay in his own bed.

‘But I’m scared in the night, and I need you’ he says with a quivering lip.

‘Then you just come right upstairs to me and I’ll cuddle you back to sleep’ comes my reply, although the sleep deprived demon in me is kicking and screaming ‘just say no!’

And so I’m employing a new tact…from now on this will be me in bed…complete with fleece lining, but maybe minus the head gear. What are the chances that it will work? Sure if nothing else it might frighten him back to his own bed.



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