Once upon a time, Mummy had strong, unwavering views on ‘the bedtime routine’. She had read the baby books, she had watched half an episode of Supernanny, she was sold on that Holy Trinity of ‘bath, book, bed’…she KNEW that consistency, patience and loving reassurance would teach her little cherub to skip off to bed with a spring in her step, a song in her heart, and a deeply ingrained desire to be fast asleep between the hours of 7pm and 7am.
Then, Mummy actually HAD a child… 🙈🤦♀️😂
Mummy has long since given up on the nightly bath, given that this tends to involve at least 15 minutes of coaxing her water-resistant offspring into it, 20 minutes of ear-shattering wails of “IT’S IN MY EYES!!!” and a half-dozen slippery laps around the bathroom chasing a dripping-wet preschooler…NO ONE has the time or sanity for that shit every day.
Mummy has longggggg since capitulated and allowed ‘one book’ to become ‘many, many books’… Mummy turns page after mind-numbing page of ‘Peppa Pig Twunts About At The Farm/Fair/Zoo’, interrupted by the same gazillion questions Mummy answered yesterday:
“What’s that penguin’s name Mummy?”
“What’s that other penguin’s name Mummy?”
“Is that penguin the other penguin’s best friend Mummy?”
“Where’s the Mummy penguin Mummy?”
“Does Peppa Pig like penguins Mummy?”
“Can I have a penguin Mummy?”
*having FINALLY move on to the next page* – “What’s that Mummy??”
… Seriously? …IT’S A SODDING PENGUIN!!! Remember?? One of those flappy little feckers we just spent 20 minutes analysing on page 3?? No??? No recollection whatsoever?? Brilliant… 🙄🙈🤦♀️
Mummy finally reaches her literary limit and announces that the ‘bed’ stage of the 3 B’s has officially begun. What has actually commenced is Mummy’s rapid progression towards her 10,000 daily steps target as she traipses up and down the stairs fetching ‘just one more’ blanket/drink/cuddly toy/member of the Paw Patrol, in her little one’s quest for the perfect sleep set-up.
Eventually, Mummy tucks her little angel up tightly, plants a gentle kiss on her brow, and relishes the soft touch of that pudgy little hand on her cheek as she reaches up and whispers those three magical words…
“Need a POO!!”
Of course you bloody do… 🙄
20 minutes later, Mummy resumes her standard post-goodnight position, lying on the floor next to her daughter’s bed trying to ignore the siren-esque lull of the white noise machine, her only source of light the faint glow of her phone as she passive-aggressively messages her husband demanding that he stop by the off-license on the way home from work for essential supplies…
But wait – it’s gone quiet. Could it be??? Mummy might even catch the end of Bake Off!
Mummy EVER-so-gently eases herself off the floor and slowly raises her head above the parapet…only to find herself eyeball-to-eyeball with a distinctly unimpressed ‘Dafuq you think YOU’RE going???’ glare.
Mummy silently sinks back to the ground and wheels out that age-old parenting technique – ‘pretending to be asleep’. Two hours and one very dead leg later, Mummy awakes with a start, victim of her own excellent acting skills. In a bleary haze, she commando-crawls with SAS-stealth across the room, rolls through the doorway, and staggers towards the light.
Drinking in the following 7.5 golden minutes of peace and Pinot Grigio, Mummy stumbles up to her own bed, pausing briefly to poke her head around the door and marvel at her beautiful daughter as she sleeps. Mummy cannot believe that she created such perfection. In fact, she can’t really remember what she was so frustrated about earlier, it’s all worth it in the end isn’t it when you look at their little fa—