Ah, the bone-tiring exhaustion of Christmas Day.
There is nothing finer than spending those hours with an eight year old.
Someone who totally and utterly immerses herself in the magic of it all. I will absolutely miss that when it goes because it is something really quite special.
However, the flip side of all that excitement was a 4am wake up call for me as she SCREAMS for me from her bed because she’s having a nightmare.
I have never moved so fast as I leap out of bed to rush to her side.
She’s sobbing. “I thought I heard scratching and then screaming from outside my room”.
She’s inconsolable and wants me to get into her (single) bed with her.
It’s 4am and freezing and I don’t want to wake anyone else up so I oblige.
She snuggles her little body up against me; almost clinging on for dear life. So I lie there and soothe her and stroke her forehead until she drops off again.
I, of course, am now struggling to drop off.
I must do however as I’m woken by a tap tap tapping on the top of my arm.
“Thank you for doing this mummy. Thank you so much. I hate nightmares”.
“That’s alright my love. It’s my job. Now get some sleep”.
Half an hour later there’s another tap tap tapping on my arm: “I’m so grateful mummy. Thank you.”
Seriously, is she not sleeping or is she setting the alarm to wake herself up at half hour intervals?
“Mia, you don’t need to thank me. I would always do this for you, it’s fine. But you really do need to get some sleep”.
“OK. But thank you”.
So so tired. I feel like I’m lying there for ages with sleep eluding me, but must once again fall asleep as at 7.30am: tap tap tap: “You can go back into your own bed now mummy if you want to. I’m OK now”.
Total amount of sleep: Not NEARLY enough to keep me sane.