Last night was one of those nights that when you have a baby you think you won't have any more when you have big kids.
11:00 I go to bed.
12:20 Dash has a coughing fit. I get up to see if there's anything I can do. I can't give him a dose of cough medicine because he's not actually awake. I attempt a ritual laying-on-of-hands (i.e. putting my hand on his back for a few seconds), which was sometimes all it took to relax him enough to stop coughing when he was younger. Doesn't work. I climb into bed with him, which also sometimes works, though it's not exactly simple due to his loft bed, and the thought crosses my mind that I may be approaching creepy Love You Forever levels of mothering. It's not creepy to get into bed with your seven-year-old, right? To stop them coughing? Oh well. It didn't work, anyway. Not for ages.
1:00 or thereabouts: I go back to my bed.
... some other time... I get out of bed again, I don't even remember why, maybe it was Mabel. Maybe it was more coughing.
... And again.
... And again.
All I know is that I returned to my own bed at 1, 2, 3, 5, and 5:30 this morning, with the intervening periods spent sleeping and/or not sleeping in one of my children's beds. Then my wonderful husband did all the morning stuff and didn't wake me till 8:30, when I had just enough time to stick my head under the shower, throw on some jeans (jeans! It's jeans weather! At least before 9am it is), and run Mabel to school.