I didn't sleep well last night.
Bug had a fever (not of the disco variety, unfortunately) and decided the only acceptable solution was to bring her hot self into bed with Mummy.
I tried to harden my heart and steel my resolve. I wanted her to sleep in her own bed, for purely selfish reasons - Mr A was away and I had the hankering to build myself a gigantic pillow fort and sleep sprawled inside it. But my willpower was melted in seconds, when she tucked her chin into my neck and whimpered "oh Mumma no! Sheep you!" I truly am a sucker.
For the first few minutes it was wonderful. She was tucked in the crook of my arm, sleepy face smooshed against me, fingers twirling my hair while she drifted off. A feverish toddler on a frosty night makes an excellent hot water bottle. (Note - do not use on your feet. Oxygen required for successful ongoing operation.)
However, I soon realised that even after the liberal application of panadol, Bug was hot. REALLY hot. Burning with the heat of one thousand exploding suns hot. And the hair twirling soon turned to full on fast-asleep hair yanking. And the adorable smooshed face started expelling itchy drool down my tender white under-bicep.
By this time I was only half awake, trapped in semi-lucidity. Too afraid to move and risk breaking her hard won sleep. Far too uncomfortable to maintain the status quo, yet not sufficiently alert to devise a reasonable solution.
It went on for hours. Or maybe minutes. (Seconds?) I'm not sure. That fierce half-land between waking and sleep runs to a different clock.
Eventually my tiny tyrant rolled off me, sprawling herself across the majority of our bed, living out my solo-sleeping dream. I spent the remainder of the night alternating between concerned temperature taking, head stroking, muttered lullabies and catatonically clinging to what was left of the mattress.
I've just tucked Bug back into bed for tonight's retest. Wish her luck!