I suppose I hoped, in some hazy corner of the twisted dodecahedron of my brain that my son would inherit the best of me. Equally I look for myself in him fairly fruitlessly on a regular basis. Today, however, my wishes were granted and lo, I looked at my son and could see myself.
A while ago we thought we were headed towards the land of no naps, the dread land where parents don't get to spend an hour or two leaving the scissors out and reading books without bits of wet biscuit in the pages. Recently, however we've had a boomerang on naps with the spud actively requesting 'a rest Mummy, I want a rest please and milk, a rest and some milk Mummy, please' and lying down beatifically on his bed with his bottle, pointing at various blankets until one meets his stringent specifications of fashion, comfort and warmth and then rolling over to gently snore to himself for two hours.
No, I'm not kidding. I know, you can hate me.
Anyway, I treasure each one of these voluntary naps with the sort of care a biologist might lavish on the last living specimin of some rare species and today, as expected, they came abruptly to a halt. My suggestion that he might like to lie on the sofa with some nice milk was met with the sort of hysterics normally reserved for the loss of a treasured toy to a maurauding friend and after wrestling him into his bed and
I got up, exhausted and went studiously on with the business of avoiding my tax return. Two hours later he was still out and, fearing for his bedtime, I went to get him up. 'No wake up! I want sleep! NO WAKE UP! Sleep! Sleep!' he cried. This time it took half an hour of me going in every 5 minutes to stroke his back while he pulled the covers over his head and shouted at me until he consented to get up.
Obstinate. Contrary. Bugger.