When I was young, maybe six or seven, I would go to my parents’ bedroom and try to sleep there, and when they eventually retired to bed, my father would have to carry me up to the dizzying heights of the loft extension where my bed was, and I’d get to cling to him on the way up the stairs.

Which was nice for me but I imagine inconvenient for my father.

Tonight, La Serpiente was incredibly tired; she had no nap because she was at school, and then she had a swimming lesson, and then she watched a Shakira video five times in a row, and I was late home from work. She wept through her bath and then demanded story after story, fighting to keep her eyes open.

I read her four chapters of Despereaux (main question from La Serpiente: “is he going to die?”) and then she relented and allowed me to put the lights out. But then she climbed out of bed and lay down on the floor, where she went to sleep. I stole out of her room and went running.

I got back about half an hour later and my wife told me off for the potential crick in her neck that I’d be inflicting, and told me to put her into her bed. I was worried that this would wake her, but as I lifted her up she quivered a little, then rolled over once on her mattress and went straight back to sleep. Floor to bed isn’t like ascending a flight of stairs, but I suppose I’m continuing the family tradition.


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