Last night, in the wee small hours, having layed down my book and finally decided to get some sleep, I crept into Finley’s bedroom to make sure that he was tucked in good and tight. And there he was, my very own topsy-turvy angel, lying snuggled in amongst the gang of furry friends he insists on taking to bed. So as I pulled his patchwork quilt up to his chin, I simply couldn’t resist leaning in to press a little Mommy kiss on to his little babba forehead. Bad move numero uno, my friends. As my lips touched his skin, he swung his arm around my neck and grabbed me in an affectionate, come life threatening, head lock.
And there we were: him lying on his side snuggling his Mummy’s head like it was the kind of prize trophy he wouldn’t give up for a big dog (and you know how much he wants one of those) and me, the owner of said head, bent over his bed, bottom in the air, too terrified to move in case I woke him up, and in apparent horror at finding himself being suffocated in the night by hairy monster, subsequently woke the entire neighbourhood.
And so there we were. His grip wasn’t loosening and I wasn’t getting any warmer because flimsy nighties are useless when one finds oneself stranded around the house when one should be in bed, and let it be known here and now, full length thermal nighties of the kind I once cherished are very, very hard to find these days, and even I, the kind of woman rather partial to winceyette (I love that word, it just smacks of cosy doesn’t it??), draw the line at this sort of affair.
But I digress, because there we were. And in the event I felt there was no choice but to sort of drag the quilt over my hunched back and kneel at the side of his little iron day bed, breathing in my sleepy son’s biscuity, night-time breath and looking for all the world like I was praying for release. Just two seconds later I suspect I was asleep. In fact I must have been asleep because I was of the notion that I was walking around Debenhams (of all places) when smack! my erstwhile little boy rolled over and punched me in the eye.
Oh yes m’dears. Smacked me he did. I screamed. He screamed. We all screamed. And the sleepy sacrifice I had made not to disturb his dreams was damned to hell and back and my son was wailing about Doctor Who and I was hopping around the room trying to see out of an eye rather spectacularly displaying the odd phenomemon that is eyelashes worn inside out, and five minutes later I was hopping again, jumping around icy cold lino in the kitchen, warming milk and wondering, who, who, in the name of all that is holy, would be a Mother??
And so today I am tired. Sleep wouldn’t come after the trauma of a midnight accident, and then this morning I stepped out into rain so torrential, (dragging my exhausted little uniformed munchkin behind me), that I bawled at everyone I met “Oh this bloody weather!” like some kind of wellington-booted, malfunctioning, cursing, Stepford Fishwife. It wasn’t pretty I tell ya.
And now it is Wednesday, baking day, and I am in need of sustenance and a hug and in the absence of a boyfriend rather dramatically dying of flu, I am yearning for the kind of comfort food you shouldn’t discuss in public, but as there isn’t a mars bars in which to fry a banana in, in the entire house (and for the sake of my thighs, hopefully on the planet), I have settled on chocolate chip hob-nobs and there is a little batch baking as we speak…
But should you too, have suffered horrors of the night-time kind, feel free to join me in a biscuit fest, to be served of course with ice cold milk and the central heating cranked up to full blast. It is November. We are Mommies. We deserve it.
Chocolate Chip Hob Nobs.
8oz Self-Raising Flour
8oz Golden Brown Caster Sugar
8 oz Porridge Oats
Handful of Chocolate Chips
1 tbsp Golden Syrup
1 tbsp Hot Water
1/2 tsp Bicarb Soda
Melt the butter, sugar, water and syrup gently in a pan. Stir together oats, flour and bicarb and add to warm butter mixture. Stir in chocolate chips, then roll into little balls and place onto a greaseproof papered tray. Flatten each ball with the back of a spoon and cook until golden on gas mark 180 degrees C…
Et voila… compensation for the trials and tribulations of living your life, in a chocolate sprinkled biscuit.