4.30am The birds start to sing. I reach for my eyemask and wish I had earplugs too. At some point, Pete shoos the cat off the windowsill where she is taunting a cackling magpie.
6.00am I notice that our bedroom door hasn’t been closed yet, which means Bernard isn’t up.
7.00am The radio comes on. Our door still hasn’t been closed. Bernard rarely sleeps past seven, and this usually means a battle to get him out of bed for breakfast. Unless…
7.10am I go and wake him, and invite him for a cuddle. He brings a large menagerie of soft toys, climbs into the middle of our bed, and commences a critical examination of any of his parents’ body parts which are available to him. Dad’s bristles go all the way to his neck!
7.20am I can’t stand him wriggling around anymore and send him to get dressed. As is his way, he chooses to do something different.
7.21am Ugh, there’s something soft on the stairs and I stood in it! Turns out that the cat got her revenge on Pete by vomiting in several places. Pete cleans the stairs, I clean the child.
7.30am Breakfast, at the usual time.
Fortunately, we don’t get the cat vomit EVERY day.
Ah, domestic bliss.
I want to know why B gets up and shuts your door? Seems unusually considerate.