It was never my intention to share my bed. I mean, with my husband, obviously; he keeps me warm in winter, and doesn’t snore, and only occasionally cackles and swears in his sleep (oh wait, that’s me), but with my children, NO.
In all his nine and a half years, Ben has NEVER slept in my bed. I’m serious! Even when he was really sick, as a baby, I’d lie on the floor next to his cot, holding his hand through the rails. Which wasn’t particularly comfortable, I grant you, but it never even crossed my mind to bring him into my bed (I’m an idiot, remember?). And then, when he went into a bed, it never crossed HIS mind to get out of it. He’d wake up and knock morse-code style on our dividing wall, but that was the extent of our bed sharing. And I’ll be honest, I LIKED IT THAT WAY. I like my bed. I like sleeping in my bed. And call me old fashioned, but I like NOT BEING PUNCHED IN THE FACE WHILE I’M SLEEPING IN MY BED.
For the past, oh, two or three months (I’ve lost track), I’ve been punched in the face almost EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. By Frankie. Frankie, who was once king of the sleeping babies, but who never really took to a bed, and now sneaks into our bedroom at around 3am for the sole reason - from what I can tell - of punching me in the face. I say sneak. He used to sneak. We used to wake up to find that a small person (Frankie, not an intruding dwarf) had snuck up from the bottom of the bed, under the duvet, to sleep between us. Which was okay; I could work with that.
Now, however, he THUNDERS into our room, which is saying something given that he’s lighter than a stick of fairy floss, and SLAMS the door open and BOUNCES into bed, with scant regard for limbs and pillows and faces. And then - from 3 until Paul’s alarm goes off at 5.20am (precisely) - we’re nudged and scratched and smacked and kicked and, last night, breathed on in a weird way. We swap spots, and rotate, and sometimes shout FUCK THIS and go and sleep in Frankie’s bed (me).
I’m over it! And to those who say OH, they’re only babies for a short while, and you should treasure those moments with your babies before dawn, I say: you haven’t seen what a gun-toting bitch I am without at least nine hours’ sleep. You should not wish that upon my children. Yesterday I threw a jar of nutella, and a spoon.
So you see, it’s in EVERYONE’S best interest for Frankie to stay in his bed. We will ALL be happier, and less bruised. The idea is - when we move - to put Alice and Frankie in the same room. As with all our parenting theories, this is based on nothing but blind hope and optimism. We think Frankie will be less inclined to jump ship if he’s supposed to be looking after his little sister, you dig?
At this point, that’s our only idea, apart from sedation, adoption, and a lock on the door. Any other suggestions would be GRATEFULLY received, especially if they come with the offer of babysitting.