The idea was to let the kids run around for the weekend while my wife, suffering from poor mental health, would unwind at home. And it worked, until it very much didn’t
My youngest son is almost four, so the sleep-deprived agony of newborn parenting has fully receded. My sleep is no longer jittery and surface-level, primed to be wrecked by the tiniest disturbance. When I sleep now, I expect to sleep.
Then last month, like a dummy, I took my kids camping. True, I did everything to maximise the amount of sleep I’d get. I booked a slightly upmarket campsite, complete with actual beds, and did some sums. The sun went down late and came up early, so my sons would wake up at the crack of dawn. But if I drifted off when they did, and everything worked out perfectly, I could just about cram in six hours.
