When the wee lass has a cold, we all suffer. The other night she was up and in our bed at about 3am. Where she felt the need to scream herself hoarse in her cot, in our bed she was happy to jump up and down like a loon and play hide & seek. Such is the nature of children.
Her cold had improved by last night however, so we packed her off to bed calpol’d up to the ears (within the safe dosage for a not quite two year old mind, we are responsible parents) at her usual time. She’d spent the day alternately rampaging and tantruming her way round London Zoo and was very tired. At about half nine she woke up for some other medicine and I had a lovely cuddle getting her back off to sleep. Made me feel like a proper parent who knows how to look after his kids.
Of course all that was merely a distraction as Fifi’s brother was brewing the main event for the night. At 2.38am she tag-teamed him and the shouting began. I made it into his room and had his complaints about wetting the bed voiced at me. At three and a half, he is still in a nappy at night as he is i) a very deep sleeper and ii) lazy. I discovered to my bemusement that the little fella (literally and figuratively) was mostly naked, garbed only in his pyjama top. Once I’d moved him out of Lake Urine, onto the shores of Dry Bed, and dressed him, I demanded an explanation.
“Me took my nappy and trousers off to play with me willy before going to sleep.”
Well yes. Perhaps I took the cowardly route but I decided 3am probably wasn’t the right time to tackle that answer, so we adjourned to our bed where we could sleep in the dry.
After twenty minutes of being kicked repeatedly in the back and mindful that wifey wasn’t very well herself, I grabbed a pillow and a throw and kipped on the floor by the radiator, listening intently for the sound of trouser removal until I drifted off to sleep.