It is Friday night. I am sat on my sofa, I am watching Netflix, I am drinking coffee, and I am fairly disgustingly bloated after eating approximately seven loaves of toast and Nutella. And I am contemplating going to bed pretty soon… despite it being 720.
I had a late night last night, and it has DRAINED me. Completely. Plus Miss Rose, having not had a late night, still wanted me to get up at 5am.
Back in the day, before marriage and babies, and back when I was not functioning day to day on an obscene amount of coffee, it wouldn’t have affected me. I would go out dancing and drinking, roll in at 3am, and start work at 745.
I’m old. Maybe not old in terms of actual numbers… after all 28 is still relatively young… but good grief I am old. I am not sitting here longing to strap on my heels and go out dancing. I am sitting here regretting the last twenty slices of toast and wondering if going to bed before 8 would be utterly tragic.
BUT… the chink of light in the dark tunnel of lethargy is that I did manage a late night. And I appear to be surviving approximately one late night a week… Maybe even two if they’re well spaced out… and surely that means there is a glimmer of hope for me!
It is times like this that having a partner to get up with the child in the morning would be nice. Because it took her dragging me up by the nostrils to convince me to actually haul my extremely tired body up and towards the kettle. And then several slaps on the thighs to make me actually turn the kettle on rather than just staring at it hoping for a telekinetic miracle.
But that is the single mum deal. Occasional late nights rock, hideously early starts are daily, and addiction to coffee is a necessity.