It’s morning time and that always comes way too early for this night owl. My son’s shouts from the next room, “Mummy, mummy!” wake me from my deep slumber. I crawl out from underneath the warm snuggly “Duvet of Life” as we call it, the super heavy winter one that makes my other half sweat like he’s been in a sauna. The cold air hits my arms and face like an unwelcome visitor as my feet hit the floor. I stumble in the darkness into the little man’s room still wiping the sleep from my eyes. “Good morning sweetheart,” I say. “How are you this morning?” He gives me a big hug and I cradle him in my arms as I help him climb out of his big boy bed and put his feet on the floor. He’s ready to go downstairs and play. I still need to brush the sweaters off my teeth. As I finish in the bathroom, I see his shadowy figure descending down the stairs in the dawn. It’s a cold rainy dreary day, one of many we see in the English winter. But we’re awake now and breakfast and the rest of a lazy Sunday await.
52 Weeks of Us
