Lie-ins are a thing of the past when you become a parent; unless of course you take the literal meaning of the term.
Let me explain; whenever Ash gets up with the boys in the morning to give me an extra few hours to sleep, I spend the majority of my time listening to shouting, screaming, crying, laughing, fighting, whining, television-blaring Mickey Mouse symphonies while I ‘lie-in’ in a state of semi-consciousness hoping against all hope that he’ll take them out in the garden or to the park – even if it’s raining.
And it’s sad. I love my bed. I love the squishy comfort of it and the warmth. I wish I could spend more time there.
Before you ask, no, I don’t iron our sheets; I have more important things to do with my time, like stopping the boys licking live batteries or throwing each other down the stairs; I do however make our bed. It gives me the hope that I have some semblance of control over my life.
The illusion of a lie-in is what keeps us going sometimes though – “Honey, could I have a few extra minutes in bed tomorrow morning? “Yes.” A feeling of victory washes over us, until we lay there the next morning listening to the cacophony of sound coming from downstairs, on the stairs, in their bedroom, in the bathroom; and we realise nothing has been won. We should have gotten up in the first place.
I don’t think I’ll ever learn my lesson.