I REMEMBER those heady days when the gentle, relaxing welcome into the day was the norm. Not have anything to do of a weekend or recovering from a night out I could take my time and leisurely open my little peepers as and when I felt like it.
Once awake I could then take myself downstairs at my own pace, brew myself a coffee in a fancy percolator then settle down to a paper or yet another rerun of Friends on Channel Four.
Ahh, happy days indeed. Now my wake up call is more like I’m being hit over the head by a blunt instrument.
Give him his due Ben is a pretty good sleeper and tends not to disturb before seven. When he does he knows about it. Mummy does not sound good, or indeed look good. I pretty much scare him back to sleep I think. When he does wake up at a reasonable hour, ha reasonable, his wake up cry can be anything from, a little song to a ‘beep beep’ to, my personal favourite, ‘wakey wakey mummy’.
As he can now push his door open from his cot he has a direct line of sight from his room to his sleeping mother so I can’t help but think there is a touch of malice that he gets so much pleasure from seeing me sit bolt upright, eyes flying open with a slightly disorientated look about me.
The day then proceeds in much the same way – on his terms.
I go into his room with all the enthusiasm I can muster to which I am met with “Cheerios mummy, Cheerios’ To which I generally reply: “And a good morning to you to Ben, yes I slept very well thank you and yourself?”
To which I am met with a blank look and further demands for his favourite cereal.
As I go down stairs and open the fridge I stare wistfully at the bacon and eggs inside and remember the sweet taste of a fry-up before I feel a tug at my pyjama bottoms and Ben is standing there with a ball in one hand and a make shift bat made out of a piece of train track in another.
“Cricket?” he enquires, and off I trudge to the crease.
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