God knows how Santa got it all down my non-existent chimney – but I was thoroughly spoiled this year.
Most of the best gifts were sleep related; A White Company dressing gown (thanks Mum <3), an electric blanket, PJs, a new mattress…
That last gift arrived on the 27th and had been a very hasty iPhone purchase. Rod has been moaning about the mattress ever since we moved down from Aberdeen and the removal company placed it directly under a leak. One of our children also peed on it recently so – repulsed, when I changed the sheets, by the yellow stain – I hastily Googled “mattress sale” and PayPaled one that had a memory foam layer and hefty discount.
It was delivered rolled tightly into a tube by an Indian guy in a beany hat.
“Look boys it’s Santa!” I cried, so delighted was I to be sleeping hygienically. They looked at him, puzzled, but were happy to share in mummy’s joy.
Unwrapping it was like opening an adult-sized jack-in-the-box. It boinged as I cut through the shrink wrap and then bounced upright, terrifying the smaller one and sending the bigger one into hysterics. It smelled like fish.
“So did my flower necklaces when we opened them for my party,” the Wee Man’s girlfriend informed me when she came to play an hour later.
“It goes away.”
So I left it lying on the bed frame and dragged the old one into KD’s room where the three kids discovered it was the best toy in the post-Christmas household. For hours they bounced on it and dragged it around, making dens and slides. Donutters, Duplo and Doh of the Play variety all lay untouched. At least there was minimal mess I told myself as I strictly supervised the jumping, convinced one of them would break a bone.
Later, as I un-boxed the new electric blanket, and made up the bed with freshly laundered sheets, I had a moment.
How old was I?
When exactly did shit like this start to matter to me?
I sat down on the showhome bed and couldn’t help but notice it was now lower with the new (cheap) mattress, so the reach up to the tallboy bedside tables was even more of a stretch. Rod was going to kill me. He hates my tallboy bedside tables. “I can’t reach shit,” he frequently complains, oblivious to the aesthetic.
I bounced up and down experimentally. Not bad. Lower to the ground definitely – and therefore closer to the 85 chargers. Aha! I realised Rod would be pleased. A Kindle Fire and Apple Watch had also been in the Christmas haul, so two more chargers were joining the cable party trip hazard. I looked fondly at the Apple Watch charger. I was the proud owner – but had actually trumped his gift by also giving him a watch. His surprise had been delicious – after all, I’ve spent most of 2016 telling him we can’t afford a Tag Heuer. We still can’t, but when you choose a classic and finance it, rather than falling for the top of the range and wanting to buy it outright, we almost can.
Maybe we’re not completely pathetic, I reasoned, swaggering around with our wrist candy, eye bags reduced by our posh sleeping attire and cosy pee-free bed.
I wonder if my Apple Watch has a sleep app?
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