The Fibro household is a little overwrought at present. Mr6 has a cold and is snoring and grinding and snuffling his way through every night, waking up tired every morning. Mr9 is, well, nine going on 14 and has decided that the best way to assert his new independence is with an attitude the size of Australia. A bad attitude. And I am working late every night, eyes squinting against the glare of my computer, writing, editing, and trying to think.
Mornings are no fun round here at the moment.
This morning as I was trying to get Mr6’s collar straight and shoelaces re-tied, with Mr9 shrieking away in the background about how school is ‘bum’, and a rising level of stress, Mr6 grabbed at me, toppling me over.
“What are you doing?” I shouted. “Can’t you see I’m trying to get us out the door?”
“I just wanted a cuddle,” he said, bottom lip quivering. “I need a cuddle.”
“We don’t have time for a cuddle,” I said, through clenched teeth, attacking the laces once again.
“Mum,” he said, seriously, putting his little arms around me, “there’s always time for a cuddle.”
So we stopped, and snuggled, and were five minutes late for school. The world did not end, but the day started out on an infinitely better note.
He’s right. There is always time for a cuddle.
Are you a screaming banshee in the morning like I am?