As it was my birthday yesterday, mum agreed to come and babysit for W so I could have a night out on the tiles. Strange but true, my partner and I haven't had a Saturday night out together when I wasn't pregnant that wasn't a family party for over 25 years. I know, on the face of it, that just doesn't stack up, but if you knew the whole story it would make perfect sense. Needless to say, by the time we had eaten dinner and got into town at 10pm, I was exhausted and ready to come home. Sheer willpower kept me going for the first couple of hours, until dare I say I was sufficiently disinhibited (is that even a word?) by a couple of drinkies to allow myself to be lured onto the pub "dancefloor" by an array of cheesy music, which had apparently been requested. I know this is a reasonably sleepy market town, but I'm pretty sure it was actually self-indulgent djs taking advantage of the fact that the poor town folks have almost nowhere else to go for a boogie. Anyway, we had an excellent night, despite the poor music, and thankfully my mum never heard a peep from W all night.
We got home at 3am and W was up for a pre-breakfast snack at 5am. We're so lucky with his sleeping, but I do so wish he'd managed to hold out until 7am this morning! Babies and sore heads really don't mix too well. Babies, sore heads, teenage step-children and a cold, wet, grey Easter Sunday at a minor English seaside resort are a whole new world of pain and challenges - all self-inflicted of course. Thank goodness for the Mablethorpe Sandtrain and seaside sugared donuts.