I am roused from what passes these days for sleep by a round of solid and insistent punches on my shoulder. As all the questions I'd initially like to ask have the word 'fuck' in them, it takes me a moment to marshal my thoughts.
"What the, what are you doing, F?"
"Hitting you. You were snoring." I probably look outraged enough that she feels a need to further justify this. "That's what mummy does."
Good to know that she spends so much time observing our midnight behaviour.
-
It's the middle of the night. In accordance with well-established tradition, C has decided she needs breakfast at 0415.
"Yoghurt," she tells me, bouncing up and down on my midriff. "Yoghurt, yoghurt yoghurt, yoghurt yoghurt yoghurt. Yoghurt!"
"It's not oof breakfast time oof yet oof," I say.
"Please," she says confidently, not to be polite but because she believes this to be how you close the deal.
"No, back to bed," I say, and start the ten minute process of hauling myself upright to carry her back to her room.
And then we do a little dance for forty minutes, where I put her into bed, tuck her up, say "night night" firmly and leave as she sulks. And then she gets up, opens her door and waits silently for me to come and repeat the process.
Sometimes she takes out her nap and demands one of a different colour, as though the blue one is all used up and only the pink one will now do. Sometimes she insists on grabbing and kneading my ear for five minutes or so. Sometimes she just rolls over and feigns sleep, although she's up again almost as soon as my head hits the pillow again.
Always, she knows exactly when I'm on the verge of slumber and times her entrances with consummate skill. There is never sleep, never enough, and I am a dazed and shambolic wreck during the days.
-
It's the middle of the night. No, it's not, it's five o' clock on a weekend, it just feels like the middle of the night. I've made egg fried rice and dumplings for dinner.
"This tastes like very old roast chicken that's gone mouldy," F says, grimacing over a forkful of rice. "And this!" she says, poking a dumpling. "This is like even older milk that's also gone mouldy."
"Digustin," agrees C, sticking her tongue out.
They aren't wrong, in fairness. I mean, the rice is okay, the standard of acceptable takeaway at best, but not exactly haute cuisine. The dumplings aren't nice, some spinach and ricotta pre-made bland that's almost totally tasteless. Not that this justifies my children Gordon Ramsaying me over dinner, of course.
"Don't be so rude, you two. You know the rules, I'm sorry it's not the nicest food but even if it's not your favourite, you still need to eat it up."
"Tack för maten," C says immediately, gets down and goes off to play. I gamely try to put her back in her chair a couple of times, but the writing is on the wall. So is some of the food.
V gets home, which is a moment of great joy to both girls as it gives them someone else to interact with instead of a rather sulky daddy. V is also not particularly moved by the food, although she at least pays it lip service, but I'm soon left alone with the congealing leftovers.
God! I long for time off, for a week when neither of the girls have February fevers, for a night of uninterrupted sleep. I can't spell any more when I write, I have to look everything up. Even on days when I'm not working and everyone else is out, I have no energy, no motivation, no willpower to get things done. I shamble round the house like a teenager, poking at projects and pretending to tidy up before falling asleep uncomfortably on the sofa. The news is full of Brexit, Trump and invented Swedish crime waves, my mind is full of frustration and incompetence.
Yet I can still read to the girls, or spend half hours pretending to be Pikachu with F, or play catch with C, or drag them unwilling to playparks and insist on exercise until we all enjoy ourselves despite the midwinter blues. This is normal, this is all as it should be, this too will pass.
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