Despite setting an alarm, my subconsciousness had the audacity to switch off the alarm and put me back to sleep. I swear I didn’t even realise I turned off the alarm.
The darned subconsciousness had even managed to subdue me from hearing the SIX wake-up calls that Hubs had made to me.
I ended up only waking at bloody 3pm to a crying baby who was obviously very hungry by then.
Fortunately, postmortem CSI-ish checking provides sufficient evidence to prove that baby had not been up and screaming for too long. The sheets were not soaked from tears. The cot was not in a mess from the frustrated gripping and pulling of sheets/pillows/blankie. His face was not even really wet from crying.
Further interview with the baby himself affirmed the fact that he was not highly distressed from the ordeal. He graciously accepted my sincerest apologies by cupping my face with his little hands and kissing me on the lips. Followed by the warmest gummy smile for extra reassurance.
But nonetheless, I feel like a failed piece of crap.
I don’t know what I would do if my baby was the unforgiving or dependent sort. The guilt incurred from neglecting him would probably have stifled and suffocated me.
But being forgiven by the baby doesn’t mean that I have forgiven myself. Or that my boss is forgiving of the fact that I was blissfully sleeping instead of being at my work post between 9 to 6pm.
I really should know my limits and not be studying for my upcoming school exam until bloody 5am.