Saturday nights are a pretty standard affair. The usual bedtime routine is followed by a small frisson of excitement that it’s Saturday night. Not a school night, not a Sunday night and all the jobs which could have been done on Friday night in order to make Sunday night a nice chilled out affair. No, this is Saturday night and by God, children or not, we’re going to enjoy.
First up is how quickly the children decide to go to sleep. If it’s a short affair then we gain an extra 45-hour of extra time. Not to be sniffed at. If it’s a long ass, drawn out affair then you might as well go to bed now. If you have anything to eat it’s too late and will give you indigestion, if you decide to have a drink you’ll only manage ‘3 fingers’ before you have to hit the hay. Don’t bother, just pass Go, collect £200 and go to bed.
Tonight was an example of a fabulous bedtime. Both kids have been full on physical activities all day. E pooped, S practically asleep before her head hit the pillow. Bliss.
T cooked lovely dinner, just started to watch a film and then it started. The illness rattle of E. He started coughing, screaming, raging. He’s fought a cold off for the last few days. So now he’s in our bed, where his 2 feet are resting on my squidgy belly and all of a sudden it sounds like I’ve taken up with Darth Vader. T will now make me a cup of tea, my g+t abandoned in the living room, along with the film on Netflix.
Saturday night is not exactly about keeping it real anymore. It’s about comforting when they’re ill, soothing when they’re screaming and always, always watching a film in at least 8-10 sittings.