3am

There was once a time in my life that 3am was a perfectly acceptable time to be awake. A long, long, long time ago. Before I moved to Australia. Before I had children. Before I met my husband. There was once a time that 3am was good.

3am was the time that ‘The Funky Fish’ the somewhat sweaty, but hugely popular Brighton nightclub closed (or rather, 3am was the time that the music finished, actually getting people to leave was another matter entirely). At 3am my sister and I, having danced our metaphorical socks off would wander out into the crisp sea air and traipse through town in search of hot, salty chips. 

3am was once a time for deep and meaningful conversations around the kitchen table with my flatmates, each warming our fingers on a fresh cup of tea. 

3am was the time that a… er… let’s call him a ‘special friend’ turned up on my doorstep with a bottle of Veuve and a very cheeky smile. 

Things are different now.

Now, 3am is a very special type of torture.

After a long afternoon of catching up with a vibrant group of Sydney bloggers, during which I drank a very reasonable amount of wine (Ok, I drank too much wine…) I went to bed on Saturday night in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.

But, as ‘Sod’ and his spiteful law dictates, what you need and what you get are two entirely different things. Especially when you have small children.

At 3am G decided to get into bed with her father and me. Not a problem! Shshhh G, go to sleep we soothed as she settled down between us. But settle down she didn’t. She talked. She sang. She fidgeted with the grace (and limbs) of a flailing octopus.

She stroked my face, “Mummy keep me safe” she said and my huffy heart melted.

At 4.45am she finally fell asleep.

Which is almost exactly when little C woke up.

Because ‘Sod’ doesn’t do things by half.

 I spent the rest of the night lying on floor next to C’s cot with my arm awkwardly sticking through the bars of her cot.

Man, 3am sure aint what it used to be.