Early in the morning my kindly torturer sneaks into my bed and snuggles in beside me as I drift back to sleep.
Then she rolls over, and sighs.
Then she kindly covers me with half of her nasty, soggy, stinky, chewed on blanket.
Then she wiggles.
Then she gently rubs my back.
Then she sighs and traces the line of my pajama top ever so gently.
Then she rubs my foot.
Then she traces the letters on my pajamas with her finger.
Then she cuddles in next to me.
She never says a word, she’s very quite, very gentle, very kind.
But the kind, gentle, loss of that last hour of sleep is so painful.
Keeping my mouth shut so as not to scream: “STOP TOUCHING ME! GET OUT OF MY BED! I’M SLEEPING!” requires so much will power.
Not crushing her spirit as I throw her from the room requires so much effort from my sleepy brain.
Then I start the day swinging between guilty feelings about my decidedly unkind thoughts about my kind daughter and feeling completly justified in my irritation that my day started out with a bit of torture.
There is something magic about that last hour of sleep. Go ahead interrupt me every hour all night, pee in your bed causing me to change it at three AM, cry, whine, throw up, anything, all night, whatever, whenever.
Just please, please let me sleep that last hour.