A while ago the hubster and I decided to splash out and upgrade our bed to a king size…o how luxurious…a fancy grown up bed with all that space. Finally we could, like France and Germany, share a border but have plenty of space on our own ends of the territory. I mean I love sharing a bed but lets face it, nothing kills love more than having to come across ice toes in the middle of the night, hence the royal sized bed is a necessity in any relationship

It’s a good spacious bed, unless of course you have children. So alas our bed, like Wall street in 2011, has also been occupied. I am now forced into what ever corner or area I can grab while trying to find a comfortable sleep position with a tiny elbow at my throat and a heel in my stomach and the occasional baby spit up in my hair. Goodbye France, goodbye Germany, I am now the Luxembourg of bordered European territories, all squished and small and surrounded by space hogs and cold toes.

I know it’s not forever, children grow up, we buy bigger beds. I am grateful to have the preschooler and the new one, but my Britishness dictates I must whinge…so whinge I must, for Queen (well king sized) and country.

 

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