Winton routinely climbs into my bed at 5.30AM for a pre-dawn snuggle.
It occurred to me yesterday (finally?) that Clara, though older and mature at age 6, might be jealous. So I said, apropos of nothing, as we walked through the blowing gale to school: "I miss snuggling with you. Want to have a snuggle-date tonight?" Her cheeks broadened with a smile she worked hard not to let her little brother see. But no comment.
Yesterday was Wednesday: our longest day of the week. It is blighted by faculty meetings for me and, though I have KICK ASS childcare arrangements (soccer for Winton, dance for Clara and neither require me to drive or wait around!), everyone is an exhausted, cranky, dysfunctional bag of sh*t by the time we're home with our heaps of backpacks and sticky tupperware.
I fed the children, speed-bathed them, got teeth brushed, Winton dressed . . . and turned around in time to see Clara, appropriately PJed and already in bed, pat the space on the bed next to her and say, winsomely, "Snuggle date, Mummy!"
I love my daughter (and my son too). We must all snuggle more. I must dole out the snuggling equitably. But there must be lots of it.