I love bedtime. All bedtimes are great, but bedtime with
kids is particularly lovely.
Tonight, Flea and I were snuggled up on her bed, having just
finished a story.
We played a quick round of a weird game we play that doesn’t
have a name but involves drawing letters on each other’s backs with our fingers and trying
to guess them. And then Flea was just having one of those cuddly moments that
are becoming increasingly rare as she gets older.
“I wish I could always be a child,” she whispered to me, pushing her fringe out of her face.
“Why’s that then?”
She stroked my face gently. “So I can always cuddle you,”
she replied.
I know, right? God, my kid is so cute
sometimes.
“You know Flea, I think you’re always allowed to cuddle your
Mummy,” I told Flea.
This isn’t strictly true, in case you're wondering – I don’t still cuddle
my mother. I’m 35, she’s almost 70. I might break her, for starters. But for the purposes of this conversation, I felt it was a justifiable lie.
Flea thought about it for a moment. “What even if you’re 8 or 9 or 10?”
she said, doubtfully.
“Yep.”
“Oh. But not when I’m 20,” she said, definitely.
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ll probably be dead by then.”
Good to know.
