That moment you’ve been waiting for all evening is finally here, bedtime. Get your victory wine ready for that joyous skip downstairs, once the baby has let you leave the room.
She’s just expelling that last little bit of energy by crying, before she goes to sleep. Because she will go to sleep. She will.
It’s bedtime. Tonight is the same as last night, when she went to sleep with only the slightest grizzle. WHY. She’s definitely tired, I’ve listened to the tired crying, whingeing and clinginess in the build up to bedtime. She’s been offered sleep. Turns out she’s not tired. She’s eaten a pair of batteries. Because I can’t accept this energy is natural.
My feet are firmly cemented to the floor, he can quite clearly hear the crying too. It’s his turn. Perhaps a deathly stare will encourage his journey back up the stairs.
He, conveniently, needs to dash out to the car to get, probably, absolutely shit all. While I reluctantly drag myself upstairs to commence a top up milk feed, cuddles, shushing, rocking or another episode of Mickey bloody Mouse.
She’s asleep. *Sips victory wine* Sit down in front of the TV in triumph.
Is that crying? Show a face that says ‘no, it can’t be. It must be the neighbours dog’ while thinking ‘for fucksake’.