Family

Stompa

For those of you who know me well, you will know that my children do not go to bed. I don’t mean that I don’t put them to bed, I do, they go to bed at 7.30 on the dot but what time they actually then go to sleep is a different matter. Up and down the stairs for at least two hours after this is the norm, it’s exhausting. Ruari actually doesn’t seem to be affected by this but Jack definitely is. He wakes the next day, two exhausted purple smudges underneath his eyes and proceeds to be entirely unreasonable and on a different planet for the rest of the day. I have tried sitting in the room. I have tried bribery and threats; ‘I will ban your kindle. I will take you out to do something fun if you go to sleep. I will call Father Christmas/the police/the fire service/the doctor/ your teacher/your headteacher/Theresa May/God if you don’t go to sleep.’ They give no shits.

‘WHHHHHHHY!!!!’ I often cry, dropping my knees and looking to the skies in a dramatic fashion. Well, I know why, basically it’s because I was smug. You see, they slept as babies. From six weeks old, they went to sleep and whilst everybody was wrung out from sleepless nights with newborns, I just couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Babies were a piece of cake as far as I was concerned. Don’t worry, I want to slap me too. They lulled me into a false sense of security and now I am paying for it. That’s what it must be, that’s all it could be and we had just resigned ourselves to this fact.

But then, BUT THEN, I recently found myself in one of the boys’ beds on a night when David’s snoring was peak dreadful and both boys had at some point ended up in our bed; a tangle of sharp limbs digging into me and pushing me to the edge of the bed. You don’t realise how many sharp angles your children are made of until they are in your bed.
‘BEGADS!’ I exclaimed to myself, in my head because obviously, I didn’t want to wake any of them up ‘no wonder they don’t sleep!’ for I could feel every spring digging into my body. It was so bad that I relocated to the sofa. Perhaps then, this was the crux of the matter.
‘It’s those bloody mattresses!’ I said to David the following day, staring at him with my head cocked to one side, not in a coquettish manner to try and use my feminine wiles to get him to put his short arms in his long pockets and invest in new mattresses; my head was that way because of sleeping on the dratted sofa and my neck had cricked into that position so that I was walking around looking rather Quasimodo-esque.
‘What is?’
‘The reason they don’t sleep you fat headed nincompoop!’ always irritated when David doesn’t immediately get what i’m on about ‘Go and lie on one and see!’
Having tested them, he agreed that they were extremely uncomfortable and sleeping on his friend’s parents doorstep in Winter when he was once extremely drunk was preferable.

So after a looooooooot of research, David ordered them a Stompa mattress each. They have arrived today. I will let you know.

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