So, it is late. The children have been put to bed, stories read and sleep beckons.
I decide to have a bath - my husband's still not home from work, so I figure I could take my time, read a book, relax.
All seems right with the world.
After a while, who appears at the door but my Son, clinging to his teddies, rubbing his eyes, hair all askew.
"I can't get to sleep," he says. "I've tried every position possible on my bed."
Now, I'm not feeling very sympathetic (it is late, he's clearly tired - just sleep!!) He's interrupted my novel and I'm a little vulnerable, being as I am in the bath. And I don't really want to have to get out to deal with him. This is my justification for my next, fatuous remark.
"Have you tried sleeping on your head?"
It does stop him in his tracks.
"No," he says, looking at me as if I am mad. Perhaps I am.
"It's probably not a very good idea," I say. "After all, when you do fall asleep, you'll just fall down and that will probably wake you up and you'll be back to square one."
He laughs, in that way children do when they know their parents are both right and completely bonkers. And with that he sits down on the bathroom floor with his teddies. Then he lies down on the bath mat.
I figure, if he can't sleep, a few minutes lying on my tiled bathroom floor won't make any difference. I'll finish my chapter then deal with him. But I don't get to the end of my chapter before my next interruption: my husband comes home from work.
He walks in, grins at me, then gawps at my Son. At this point I sit up and take notice. Peering over the edge, I see him in all his childlike glory: fast asleep. For a mother, I suspect, there is nothing more beautiful than their children in peaceful repose, clutching their teddies or dolls, far away in the land of nod.
But he is on my bathmat, and I do have to get out of the bath sometime. Reluctantly we wake him and take him to bed. This time, thankfully, he falls asleep quickly in the proper place (head on pillow!)