Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 684 by Angharad

I wondered about sleeping in Livvie's bed as she was in mine, then wondered if it would be seen as a form of rejection, plus if she was left alone with Simon, could that put him in a compromising situation? Reluctantly, I got into bed.

Livvie was snuggled into Simon’s back and facing away from me. I slipped carefully into the bed and pulled the lightweight duvet over me, then turned away from the child. I was sleeping on the edge of the bed, and unlike the joke, didn’t drop off—not easily.

I woke at one point feeling a small hand clasp me round the waist and a sleepy voice sigh, “Mummy.” I tried to get back to sleep but my mind was in turmoil and my head was still tender from the bashing Simon had given it.

Mostly I was irritated by finding the child in my bed. I was tired and wanted to sleep, which really meant wanting her out and in her own bed. Bloody Simon was fast asleep and oblivious to what was happening and in my stupified state, I resented that, too. Why do these things happen to me? I kept asking myself, feeling very full of self pity.

The answer that came back was one of two, that interchanged depending upon how awake I was. The first answer was simple logic, it happens because it can: the second, was less logical and more emotional. It happens to me because I have the capacity to deal with it. I am lumbered with three kids because the universe thinks I can care for them. At times I feel in agreement, at others, I feel at odds. Tonight, I’m so tired, I don’t know what I feel.

I did sleep eventually, not because I’d resolved anything, rather exhaustion had meant I could no longer stay awake to think. I drifted off very aware of the hand around my waist and the warm little body clamped to me.

I awoke with Simon and Livvie talking to each other. He was lying on his back and must have gone to the loo already, because he usually wakes up with a large boner, I believe is the term, and that would not be very appropriate with a child in the bed.

I tried to screen them out, sneaking a glance at the clock, it was only half six, she had robbed me of most of the night’s sleep, one way and another. Okay, none of it was deliberate, but I was still very tired, which fuelled my resentment. Do all parents feel like this? If so, no wonder so many kids get battered. I’m not condoning it, rather explaining why some people lose it with their otherwise much loved children.

“When do we have to go back to school, Daddy?”

“When the swine flu business is over, whenever that is.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know, Liv, keep your voice down you’ll wake Cathy.” I felt like purring at him for thinking of me. However, a moment later I could have hit him. “You know what’s she’s like when you wake her up—crabby as a lobster.”

‘And you’re never grumpy, Simon Cameron?’ I thought, pulling the duvet tightly around me.

“Did Mummy hear you, Daddy?”

“Nah, she’s fast asleep,” he whispered at about the same number of decibels that Sharapova produces when serving an ace. Bugger it’s Wimbledon and I haven’t seen any yet, let alone Andy Murray winning anything. I keep up to date via the radio, which tells me briefly who beat whom, but it’s much better to see it happen on TV.

I was drifting back off again when the radio alarm went off, and Jim Naughty was asking someone awkward questions, about Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson? My tired little brain tried to sort it out. What’s he in the news for? Oh, he’s doing all those concerts in July. Then I dreamt he was dead.

I know I was dreaming, he’s doing all those concerts in London, and Simon had half promised to take me to one—he had a contact for tickets. I hope he does some of his Killer stuff, with the moon-walking, which I think is so clever.

Jim Naughty seemed intent on spoiling my dream, because he asked someone in LA, where this happened, what was known to have happened. Some sort of cardiac arrest, possisbly from an overdose of painkillers. My dream seemed particularly weird, and I felt myself crying, even though I was half asleep.

“You alright, babes?” he said loudly to me.

I burst into floods of tears, "Michael Jackson’s dead. You were going to take me, remember?”

“Yeah, I expect it’s a mistake.”

“I doubt it, he really is dead.”

The news headlines were repeated and this time he heard them. “Bloody hell, Jacko is a gonner, oh shit! Sorry, babes, unless this is a hoax, that concert looks unlikely.”

“It’s June not April.” I grumbled back.

“I know, I do paperwork, remember?”

“Bloody pen-pusher,” I snapped.

“Well it keeps you in dolly mixtures,” he said back at me.

“If you say so, I thought I bought my own.”

We were startled by the sound of weeping from between us. Livvie. I turned over and said, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I don’t like you fighting, my old Mummy and Daddy, used to do that all the time.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it wasn’t meant to be like this.”

“Yeah, don’t take any notice of us, it’s not real fighting,” quipped Simon, “she’s just crabby ‘cos she can’t see a music show.”

If that were all, I’d feel much easier about things, but I chose not to reveal anything else of my misgivings and resentment. It was near enough time to wake and think about how I could convince Simon to take Livvie down for breakfast and allow me to sleep bit longer. Normally, I can wrap him around my finger, today he seems a bit bolshie.

Two minutes later, the other two musketeerettes arrived and the morning lie-in was forgotten. Bloody children!