Nights like the last one have thankfully become few and far between, but coming on top of general whale-induced insomnia, it was particularly hard to take the screams for “PEACH AND WEET BICK” with much sympathy. And then there’s the first incidences of, um, shall we say, ‘elasticity with the truth’?
I suppose this comes with evolving as a human, but not until last night had I ever had Small Z tell me things that weren’t true. I mean saying, after she had used the potty with no issue, that she had to wee three more times… GROAN. And it’s not like my own bladder isn’t under strain. I find that getting vertical leads it to feel like it needs emptying, so she didn’t help… Needless to say I have now learnt my lesson and am happy to risk a wet bed.
Small Z has had it spelt out to her that there is no food in the night (unless there are extenuating circumstances). Usually she’ll do the yell for peach at about 2am and go back to sleep. Not last night. In the end we compromised on a bottle of cow’s milk. Which I went and got. Only to come back, have her sit up on my barely-there lap, and say, “I don’t want it.” At which point I nearly inserted it in her most handy orifice. Sigh.
All in all I was up out of bed about TEN times and was at the end of my rope. I got about four hours broken sleep. M came in at one point and I thought he was going to try and console Small Z (never a good idea) but instead he consoled me – and at that point I would have built the boat for him, I was so thankful. I even forgave him for asking me not to blog about Men Who Wee In Bottles. I suppose it’s a mothering given – that it’s rarely the the mama that gets the cuddles, because she’s usually dishing them out to the one who wants the WEET BICK.
Anyway, Small Z awoke this morning like a ray of sunshine and one of the first things she did was recite a poem from one of her favourite books Down In The Marvellous Deep.
“wouldn’t you love to be a whale and sail serenely by?
an 80 foot whale from the tip of your tail, and a tiny briny eye.
wouldn’t you love to wallow when nobody says ‘come out’?
wouldn’t you love to swallow, and blow all the brine about?
wouldn’t you love to be always clean?
and never have to wash, I mean,
wouldn’t you love to spout? oh yes!
a feather of spray as you sail away
and the rise and sink and rise and sink
and blow all the brine about
In regard to elasticity with the truth, she has, of course, come up with interesting scenarios to explain certain things, but they have been so far-fetched that I somehow don’t feel that they count.
Me: Z, why did you get upset at Two Group the other day?
Z: Because I dropped a glass…TRAIN and it broke.
Me: Z, how did you get that little cut on your chin?
Z: A Bengal piraña bit me. A REALLY big one.
Me: Z. WHY can’t you go to SLEEP?
Z: Because all the Tiggers in this house are bouncing too much.