Shit on my hands

There’s a glorious period after your baby starts sleeping through the night when bedtime is a relatively simple affair. A bit of warm milk, a couple of cosy bedtime tales, a big hug, and Bob’s Your Uncle. You’ll have the pleasure of eavesdropping on your child as he puts himself to sleep with some sublimely sweet and ridiculous self-soothing rituals: fake snoring; singing loud tuneless lullabies with creative lyrical maulings; recapping the day’s activities with his own peculiar slant on events.

By 7:30 you’ll be happily ensconced in the adult pursuit of your choice, secure in the knowledge that nothing short of a yodelling contest will prompt your baby to wake.

And then one evening the malevolent fairy of prolonged sleep rituals will visit him, sprinkle glittery pixie dust all over his pillows and whisper into his ear ‘You know, you really must learn how to fuck with your parents a bit more at bedtime’. Enthusiastically embracing the idea, your young one will begin to craft his evening routine into one of eye-wateringly drawn out monotonous frustration: requests for umpteen blanket rearrangements, glasses of water, toilet trips, one more book, another goodnight kiss for the cat, a belly rub.

In time you’ll learn how to short-circuit all the procrastination devices your child has up his sleeve. Always make sure he wees right before you tuck him in. Present the cat for a one-time only opportunity to say goodnight. Do a thorough wardrobe check for bears/ghouls. Pre-empt plaintive pleas of ‘But I’m thirsty’ by having a drink bottle on his bedside table. It takes craft and cunning, but slowly the demands will recede as your child again grudgingly accepts that you’ve had an encounter with your own supernatural sprite, albeit one who’s ditched the Tinkerbell wings for prison warden britches.