First thing this morning, I rolled over and put my face into my pillow. Except it wasn't my pillow, (although it was soft) and it smelt like six days of drool and unbrushed teeth. I reared back and heard a tiny giggle.
'I slept with you, Mama. And you didn't wake up!'
Ah yes. It's the Bed Bandit.
Rosey has never been a good sleeper. She would be our Nightime Roamer, the one voted Most Likely To Be Skulking Around At Midnight. She wakes easily and often, and while she most certainly can put herself back to sleep, she often chooses not to.
So Bear and I are never quite sure where she'll be when we wake up. Always with that small crow of knowing she did something we don't totally approve of (B gets tired of tripping over her when she sacks out in the hallway) - always with her blanket. Usually clutching a stuffed rabbit or a fed-up pissed-and-rumpled-whiskers cat. Limbs akimbo, she'll curl up and nod off, happy to be where other people (or cats) are.
Not that she's a terrible person to share the bed with, usually. Because she's not. It's a bit surprising, though, to find that your husband has morphed into a cheery sprite with little bird feet and an inexhaustible pile of stories.
Now, if I could only teach her that Mama is much happier to see someone when they come bearing fresh-brewed coffee....
Oh, and I need to snag that blanket. Blankie must be washed. Today.