I Need A Bigger Bedtime

"I need a bigger bedtime," said Eddie, as I went in to wake him up for a second time for school this morning when he failed to appear at breakfast after the first call.

Yes, I thought, perceptive of you. But, on the other hand, at whatever point in the evening I decide to brace myself and mention the 'b' word, you embark on a sort of squawking performance which I have come to interpret as indicating a level of resistance to the proposal. You are also master of delaying tactics, able to draw out the whole process for a good hour or so. It is, in fact, a tad stressful, if am to be entirely honest.

Though a bigger bedtime would make all of us happier, I thought, longingly. My wine glass could be filled earlier, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that I myself could also do with a bigger bedtime, frankly.

Still, it's hard to believe that something as small and innocent-looking as this can be so noisy and ferocious before sleep, or so grumpy when it wakes up.

Night Terrors: The Return of the Dreaded Anthelope

I'm fascinated by the way that children hear a word and make up the (wrong) meaning for it. I was guilty of this myself as a child. Apparently, I told my parents repeatedly that there was a 'hippotmus in Teasy's bedoom'.

Mum, understandably dismissed the idea. Given that we were living in North London at the time, the notion that there might be a large mammal from sub-Saharan Africa roaming around upstairs was fairly remote.  I was, however, fairly insistent about its presence. And, fed up with not being believed, I picked up the 'hippotmus' and carried it downstairs in my clenched fist.

I opened my hand to show my disbelieving parent the 'hippotmus' at which point it stung me. Somewhere along the way I had inexplicably substituted 'wasp' for 'hippotmus'.

Eddie has woken up a couple of times of late in absolute terror.  He explains that he is being chased by a giant 'anthelope'.  Initially, I thought he meant 'antelope' and I tried to explain that this deer-like creature wasn't terribly scary.  There is obviously a similar disconnect though between the noun and what it represents because Eddie is insistent about the danger of  this anthelope and dismissive of the idea that it might be related to Bambi.

At some point the mystery of the dreaded anthelope will, I am sure, reveal itself.  Meanwhile, we must against the danger of this creature. Difficult to do that when you aren't sure quite what it is.  Perhaps anthelopes truly are terrifying.  Frankly, I hope not to find out.



Currently reading: Lilies on the Land, a play by the Lions part

The Chronicles of Cabrieres

I love what has become the annual family pilgrimage to the south of France.

I would have found it anathema before children to return to the same place each year when there is a whole wide world out there to explore. 

But now there is comfort in the familiarity, joy in the patterns re-established, surprise in the little things that have changed in the house or the village.

And we do the same things each year: kayaking under the Pont du Gard, market day in Uzes, lunch at the Fountain, a mad day of sliding at Aqualand. Though there is always something new.  This year we found a new restaurant in Nimes, and took the kids to the Musee de Bon Bon.

But the best thing this year have been the 'Chronicles of Cabrieres'.  When Gertie and Gilbert were very little I wrote some stories based on events and photographs of real things that had happened to us, but always with a magical or adventurous twist: building a snow dragon that came to life at night, or having go-cart races in the sky.  Absolute nonsense, but the children love it when they feature in the stories, and laugh at any recognisable mannerism or turn of phrase. There is excitement at bedtime surrounding what the day's story will be.

So, in the Chronicles of Cabrieres we have had Hearth-Father and Hearth-Uncle transforming into superheroes to rescue hedgehogs from the pool with their Velcro heads; an explosion at the sweetie factory that covered everyone in the mixture for their favourite sweet; a dramatic rescue at the Pont du Gard; a tidal wave at Aqualand that everyone had to surf, and transportation back to Roman times in the Nimes amphitheatre. Not bad for a couple of weeks in the south of France.

Only downside is that it's interrupted my sunbathing time a little as I have to write the damn things each day.

Currently Reading: Spies by Michael Frayn

Sleepover, Sigh.

Gertie has just experienced what by a rough calculation must be her tenth sleepover. Her fifth birthday was the turning point, and then it somehow became acceptable over night. Literally. She has two 'best' friends and they take it in turns. Last night Jessie came to stay with us. There was nail-painting, brother-baiting and hair-plaiting.


There were also some strange requests. Some things that she wouldn't dare to ask normally. Like, "Mummy, can we go and play with your make-up as Jessie's here?" And, "Mummy, is it ok if we take some food up into the bedroom while Jessie's here?" Um. Let me think about both those things for not very long. NO. And I managed to skirt the staying up late and watching a DVD issue by happily not being able to get the DVD player to work.


By midnight they were still talking. I was a little bit grumpy. This morning I have found the remnants of the feast stuffed under pillows - tell tale chocolate wrappers and crisp packets (so much for no food in the bedroom).


They then had the audacity to come running into our room at too-early o'clock because the brothers had woken them up too early in the morning. I don't think they fully appreciated the irony. Now that Jessie has gone home, Gertie is curled up on the complaining about being too tired.


Gilby is five in a few months time. He's too dependent to really enjoy a sleepover yet, I think. He got excited about it, and then when I mentioned that it would be his turn soon he quickly found lots of reasons why it shouldn't happen. I think I agree with him. I certainly don't remember sleepovers as a regular thing at that age.


As a child, sleepovers fell into two categories. The first meant staying at my grandparents' house as a matter of necessity because my parents needed childcare. This was a fairly regular occurrence, good fun, and is associated in my mind with plenty of treats, a change of books and toys, and some privileges appropriately afforded to being the eldest child. (Like being able to stay up a bit later than my siblings.)


The second kind, with friends, were rare and precious. I can remember only about five occasions, although I'm sure there must have been more. I recall late nights with my friend Liz, stashed food, the intimacy of whispered conversations, the strange noises of the fabric of someone else's house. Scary stories and giggled secrets. I must have been twelve or thirteen, I think. And I suspect that I asked of my parents things that were usually not allowed on the off-chance that they might be because Liz was there.


On my fifteenth birthday I had tickets for Bon Jovi for myself and a bunch of friends. Mum drove us up to London in a minibus, and there must have been at least eight of us. Because we would get home so late, everyone had brought sleeping bags for a sleepover on my bedroom floor. Bundles of bodies arranged haphazardly all over the room. 'Sleepover' was a misnomer, because in the adrenalin-fueled aftermath of the concert very little sleep happened. But I have never forgotten it. Come to think of it, I think my mum might have come in slightly crossly at about 2am because there was too much noise.


So perhaps the only thing that's changed about sleepovers is indeed the frequency. And perhaps not even that; maybe these magical nights seem far fewer in my own childhood just because they were so special. Sigh. And what would I do on a sleepover now? Probably catch up on some sleep...





Currently reading: Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

If You Go Down to the Woods Today...

The bank holiday weekend has been one endless stream of...fun.  Although, as Jerry Seinfeld says, 'There's no such thing as fun for the whole family,' so possibly not all of us were enjoying exactly the same moments.

Saturday was a birthday party for a four-year-old, and all three of my children were invited: joy.  This eliminated the opportunity for rows to break out over the fact that Gertie receives far more invitations to parties and functions generally than either of her younger brothers.  It was also good for Mummy, who didn't have to be in three different places at the same time (which is my usual weekend party trick).

Sunday began with a christening.  The service began at 10.30 and finished at 12.15.  This was long by any stretch of the imagination, even for mine who are used to attending Mass.  After about an hour Gilby turned to me looking quite pale.  'Mummy, I'm not feeling very well.  I need to get out of here. I'm....church-sick.'  He said it like it was a well-known condition, akin to car-sickness.  Something that would pass immediately, once one was away from the cause.  This, of course, would ensure that I couldn't counter with any suggestion that he be too ill to attend the christening party afterwards.  Clever, I thought.  Though judging by the discomfort on many of the adults in the surrounding pews, they too were suffering from Gilby's affliction.

It was a lovely party afterwards though, in glorious sunshine in the garden of a local pub, and, as predicted, Gilby was soon cured.  We couldn't stay all afternoon, however, since we had to get back and pack up for our camping trip.  Yes, camping trip - our first time.  We were camping in the woods near the house of some friends.  It had all seemed like such a good idea when we decided to it on the spur of the moment the previous evening.  We bought a tent on ebay and picked it up that morning.  No chance to test it out or even check it was all in one piece.  Actually, it wasn't, but that was by design.  Two bedrooms, no less.  No en suite though.

So, a bit of back-to-nature for us.  A roaring camp fire, toasting marshmallows, three in a bed, (the lack of a ground-sheet for the outer living area meant that poor old Gilby couldn't sleep in his cot) last minute checks for lurking gruffaloes: all a great adventure.  Mummy froze, though, in the night, and was too worried about everyone else worrying to drink as much wine as she ought to have done.  I wanted to keep myself under the limit in case a midnight flit back to civilisation was required.  In fact, this couldn't have happened in any case, as the flat battery on the car in the morning testified.  Much huffing and puffing and pushing was required before we were eventually rescued by a digger and jump-leads.  It was not the finest moment. Still, it was an experience.  The kids came home filthy and desperate to do it again.  Mummy will have a couple of glasses of red and think about it.  Cheers!

It's A Shoe-On

We don't get out much. 

Even less, since the night time shenanigans began in earnest for Gilby in the run up to Christmas.  Nine weeks of interrupted sleep seems a lifetime, and I wouldn't want to inflict one of those tortured evenings on an unsuspecting baby-sitter.  But given that we have Lady Visa, our au pair, we thought we'd try it last night.  Just round to friends' for supper; a few streets away.  Easy to return if things kicked off back at home. We took the unusual precaution of pre-ordering a taxi, on the off-chance that one or two glasses of alcohol might be consumed.

We returned, relaxed(!) and refreshed at about quarter past eleven (phew - late night!) to find Gilby crying his eyes out, one shoe on, sitting by the back door trying desperately to pull the other shoe on.  Ouch.  That is the combined pain of my heart hurting, and the piercing stab of guilt. 

He was incoherent, but I'm assuming he must have wandered into our bedroom, realised that we weren't there, and, without checking Lady Visa, decided that he had been abandoned.His three year old mind had then hatched a wild plan to head out into the dark night to come and find us.  We live on a main road in the middle of nowhere.  Fast cars and no people!

Once we had calmed him down, he whispered in my ear that he was 'sorry for being naughty and for putting my shoes on, actually...'.  Ouch, ouch, ouch!

Sigh.  So there's guilt and there's...guilt.  It will be a while until we try to go out again, methinks.

Bedtime Blues

I remember those halcyon days (sigh) back when bedtimes were easy.  Oh, I used to nod with sympathy and understanding as other parents described their debilitating night-time woes, but all the time I was smiling smugly on the inside.

Well.  It is payback time now.

Gilby's nightly tantrums have, if anthing, increased in duration and intensity over the last five days.  I made the school girl error of googling the problem.  Inevitably I stumbled blindly into a multitude of frenzied forums where the sleep-deprived contributors seemed ready to commit infanticide.

Suggestions ranged from cuddling your troubled toddler all night long, to locking him alone in the pitch black and ignoring the screams.  Well, that's cleared that one up, then.

It did seem to me to neatly summarise the two extremes of approach to parenting, if nothing else.

We have gone for what I hope is a middle ground of calm whispering (it works, which losing my temper completely on Saturday night blatantly did not), moving bedtime forward by half an hour, a CBeebies podcast to listen to...and a stairgate beyond his door.  Yes, I know, that's the controversial bit.

Last night it only took two hours for him to go down.  A significant improvement on Saturday's six hour marathon which left us both physically and emotionally drained.  And tonight...well, it's early yet, but...no screams!

I am not smiling smugly, inwardly or outwardly.  Yet.

The Restless Pillow

Sleep has become a problem in our house.  Gilby's very much in the Virginia Woolf frame of mind in relation to bedtime, seeing sleep as 'that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life' though of course he doesn't express it quite so articulately.  Here are his top five reasons for not going to bed.

1. "I'm not tired."  This one is particularly favoured after a long, busy day of lots of physical exercise and will be accompanied by enough tears, tantrums and general misbehaviour so as to suggest that 'tired' is exactly what he is.  This is my favourite since it usually means that he'll be snoring inside ten minutes.
2. "I don't like rooms."  This one's a bit trickier.  We moved him from his own room into sharing with his big sister a few weeks ago, because it began as "I don't like my room". When he persists with this one I usually offer the garden or the shed as alternatives.
3. "My duvet's not on straight."  There's enough OCD in this household to ensure that a not-straight duvet is extremely problematic for getting off to sleep.  Much fuss and smoothing over.  Calmly. Easier said than done.
4. ""There are people walking round and they're talking about trying to get me."  This one makes my heart hurt as I remember my own irrational night terrors.  It requires cuddles and headstroking and the promise of leaving the door open.
5. "There are monsters in here." As for 4.

Good night.

Pushing the Boundaries (or not)

I have self-diagnosed a severe case of bad parenting.  I have one 'ailing' baby at the boundaries of the weight chart, one explosive three year old in reference to whom the phrase, 'pushing the boundaries' can only be used as a polite euphemism, and an angelic eldest child who wouldn't know how to push a boundary if it bit her.

Gilby's behaviour is deteriorating exponentially, if that is possible.  Added to the tantrums (now indescribable) is the refusal to sleep alone, or, in fact, go to bed at all.  This then impinges on 'grown-up' time in the evenings, which is an absolute requirement for maintaining sanity.  If you see me on the front pages of the County Times on a murder charge, you'll know instantly that I am guilty.  I could cheerfully throttle him fifty times a day.  (Rhymes with a book I'm reading...)

At the other end of the spectrum is Gertie.  We went shopping in the village the other day and she wanted to bring her bike (stabilisers on, of course).  She was very good at sticking to the designated areas whilst I went into each shop.  My careful boundaries, "So - you can cycle round between here and here but not go up to the road, Ok?"  were met with an obedient, "Yes, Mummy."

Peering over the counter at the post office to check that she was in the right place, I noticed that she had confined herself to a thin sliver of pavement and was riding up and down on that, even though I'd offered the whole of the pedestrian end of the precinct.

"What was wrong with over there?" I joked, as I came out.  She pointed to the blue plastic National Lottery pointy-finger by the window. 

"But Mummy, the sign said, 'play here', so I did."

Wonders of Wimbledon

Gertie loves Wimbledon, for two reasons as far as I can see.

I try to watch as much tennis as possible during the tournament (on television, of course - haven't made it to the championships since children arrived on the scene) and so for Gertie it means time spent with Mummy cheering on Andy Murray. There's a sort of osmosis happening here, because she likes the things that Mummy likes. (I know that will not last, so I'm just enjoying it while it does.) More importantly, though, for Gertie, it sometimes means late nights, staying up past bedtime, and it often means strawberries and ice-cream in front of the televison. Two treats that happen rarely at other times of the year.

Gertie enjoyed seeing Serena Williams win this afternoon, (though her delight was in how many people she cuddled at the end and the size of the plate, more than in the performance itself) and was fascinated to hear that this was Serena's fifth Wimbledon title.

Whilst her enthusiasm doesn't quite match that of her mother's, Gertie's very much looking forward to tomorrow and seems excited that Murray is in the final.

"So how many times has Andy Murray won it before?" she asked, conversationally, as Serena did her post-match interview.
"He hasn't."
"Oh. So he's not very good, then?"

I started explaining how difficult it was to win Wimbledon and then gave up, bowing down to the logic and clarity of the five-year-old mind. Just hoping that tomorrow changes that mind, though.

And, speaking of changed minds: after my last post about the excitement of Eddie putting on weight, it seems that the health visitor made a mistake with the scales and he hasn't jumped up onto the chart at all. I'm sure there's a full blog post hidden in there somewhere, but at the moment I'm too angry to think about it.

As Easy as ABC

Gilby has been getting a little fed up with his big sister's reading prowess of late. She has taken over the reading of the bedtime story, to all intents and purposes and is decidedly 'showy-offy' about her abilities, using a really patronising tone to explain which episode of Little Bear they are watching as she reads the credit sequence. Her little brother is not allowed to be the teacher when they play schools as her superior knowledge means that Gertie herself must always play this part.

Gilby, three next month and entirely filled with his own sense of self-importance, (deservedly, as he points out that he can now climb by himself up into his car seat) has decided to take matters into his own hands.

He has begun to earnestly 'write his name' on his drawings as Gertie does. And, although a close inspection will reveal that this is nothing more than a series of zig-zagged lines, we all have to agree that it does, indeed, spell 'Gilby'.

And earlier this week he picked out all the Oxford Reading Tree Stage One books into a big pile, brought them to me and demanded that I teach him to read right there and then. He folded his arms determinedly in a 'bring it on' stance and prepared to do battle with the books. Since he knows all the characters and all the stories inside out, he was able to sound convincing from memory quite quickly and then sat back when he had 'read' a couple, completely satisified with his own literacy progress.

If only it were that simple...

In the Beginning was the Word

Gertie loves reading.  She has whizzed through the Oxford Reading Tree stages with remarkable speed and fluency through her reception year.  No bad thing, since I have had more than enough of Biff and Chip and that magic key beginning to glow.  But she is certainly a voracious reader, if such a thing can be said of one who has just turned five.  

For the last year or so we have been doing a book at bedtime.  Daddy does the bedtime story with Gertie and Gilby together whilst I am feeding Eddie.  But then, once all the goodnight kisses have been done, I sneak back into Gertie's room and we have a chapter or two of a grown up book.  I say 'grown up'; I mean things like Roald Dahl, Anne Fine or The Worst Witch.  Roald Dahl is the biggest hit.  We have worked our way through The Magic Finger, The Twits, Fantastic Mr Fox, George's Marvellous Medicine and James and the Giant Peach.  We are part of the way through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Gertie's engagement with the story is utterly magical to witness.  At this point I should probably give a spoiler alert as I discuss some of the narrative devices in the novel!

We reached the chapters after we have met all the horrible winning children, where Charlie longs to get the final golden ticket.  As each Wonka bar was consumed without golden ticket success, she got more upset. Her disappointment on his birthday was palpable.  Her confident prediction that Charlie would surely get the golden ticket when he first found the fifty-pence-piece was quickly shattered, then met with disbelief.

The delayed climax of the night of the winning chapter coincided with an evening when Daddy was home late, so we swapped roles: me doing the official bedtime story with the boys as well, then Daddy stepping in for the secret bedtime read.  So I missed the actual moment.  But I could hear Gertie's shouting, fist-clenching victory salute from downstairs.  Her joy when he finally does triumph was unparalleled.  She just had to share it with someone! 

I was summoned upstairs for some important news with a little wink from Daddy.  There was a great solemnity as Gertie called me in, but she couldn't stop the excitement from bubbling in to her little voice as she broke the news to me. 

I'll cherish the moment forever: the absolute enchantment of reading.  I am delighted she has discovered it so young.

Things That Go Bump in the Kitchen

Another year, another birthday, another mess in the kitchen, another baking triumph (but don't look too closely, it's a little, er, 'rustic' round the edges).

Yes, Gilby was two last week, and with a few days to go before the event he announced that he no longer wanted another train cake, but 'Mr Bump'. Good, I thought, at least it's round. Though blue was not the most appetising colour for the, mostly adult, guests at his tea party.

Pregnancy hormones must be kicking in big time, because I also MADE bunting for the occasion. I saw some for sale at the primary school fete and thought, 'Twenty quid for a couple of metres? Pah! I'll make it!'

So, having invested in a sewing machine and a selection of fabric, I reckon my bunting has set me back over £200. Oh well.

But the little man was on top form, dressed in shirt and tie for the day, and even going as far as to sit back up in bed, more tired than I've ever seen him, just after kissing him goodnight to say, "Thank you for my party, mummy," in the sweetest, most angelic little voice.

Now, lest all this sound too good to be true, and I'm even sickening myself with the homely baking and bunting imagery, let me just pronounce, for the record, that the terrible twos began in earnest the very next day as Gilby kicked and screamed and demanded, "More presents, more presents, more presents..." for hours. So domestic bliss was short-lived...

34 Weeks pregnant: Definitely not feeling the bikini body...
Currently reading: That Summer in Ischia by Penny Feeny

Gangsta Nap

Gilby is eight weeks away from his second birthday, but the terrible twos have well and truly arrived. My usually smiley, happy, very good natured little boy is occasionally kidnapped and substituted for a little horror who looks remarkably similar. But when this doppelganger is present, we have regular screaming tantrums, the comedy grumpy face, the inflexible torso, the poker-straight back, the kicking and lashing out, and the repeated no's regardless of what the question is:

"Would you like a biscuit?"
"NO!"
"Would you like a birthday party?"
"NO!"
"Would you like to stand up?"
"NO!"
"Sit down?"
"No, no, NO!"
"Would you like to scream your head off all day long?"
"NO!"
Well stop doing it then....

We had one such incident the other night at bedtime.

Usual bedtime routine - supper, bath, Bedtime Hour on CBeebies, then milk in the rocking chair whilst I read my Kindle. In case this sounds heartless, it is at his behest. "Mummy, read Kindle!" (Sentences generally take an imperative form at the moment.)

When he has had enough of his milk he thrusts it forward and whispers, "Finished...bed." At this point, I tuck him in, leave his little wind-up cot-music playing, turn out the light and gently close the door. He might sing to himself for a little while, but usually he is asleep within a few minutes. (Lest this all sound too good to be true, let me reassure you that he will be up at least once and probably twice later during the night...)

Anyway, on the night in question, instead of the cosy little scenario described above, a purple-faced, snot-ridden, screaming tantrum from hell ensued. Nothing could calm him, and I resorted to leaving him crying in his cot for a while. I couldn't pick him up anyway, given the rigid back, clenched fists and kicking (not great for my 26 week 'baby tummy').

But the little man has learned how to reach over from the cot, open his door and turn the light on. The tantrum meant that Gertie couldn't get to sleep, so I had to drag the cot into the middle of the room in an effort to keep the door closed and contain the noise. After fifteen minutes had passed he still didn't seem to have calmed down at all. I had to go back in, and I braved his angry lashing out. I sat stubbornly in the rocking chair repeatedly offering the milk and singing. (Somewhere Over the Rainbow, his favourite from tiny.) His reaction was to punch me repeatedly in the mouth.

I persisted. Eventually, the rigid, angry little body went limp in my arms and he reached out for his bottle, snuggling back into his usual position.

He slid the bottle to one side of his mouth so that only the corner of his lips was moving and, menacing like some mafiosa gangster, gave his snarling, whispered demand that I 'Sing that Song!'

Things That Go Bump in the Morning

Gilby tumbled from his cot yesterday morning; a sure sign that it is time to move to his bed. I have tried to make that move as attractive as possible: he has a racing car-styled bed with dinosaur bedding. Wouldn't be my own first choice, but I have tried to appeal to the things he likes. It hasn't made any difference. The bravado displayed in the morning about wanting to sleep in his new bed has completed dissapated by the evening, and there is no chance of getting him to even try it.

Gertie was singing 'Jack and Jill' quietly to herself in the car this afternoon. When she got to the part about Jack falling down and breaking his crown, I couldn't help but think of Gilby and his dramatic cot-side topple. But as she got to the next verse about the mending of the broken head with vinegar and brown paper, she stopped.

"That's just silly!"
"What is?"
"Jack trying to fix his crown with vinegar and brown paper."
"You're quite right, it is very silly," I agreed, musing at her four-year-old perceptiveness.
"He'd at least need sellotape as well..."

Yes, of course he would. Perhaps I should get Gilby some until he is willing to make the move to his bed!

The Night-Time Ceremony

I wonder if anyone else's night-time ritual is as complicated or as fraught with potential upset as Gertie's?

It begins straightforwardly enough, with the evening meal, followed by a bath every other night and into pyjamas; then back downstairs for one, two, three, and on rare occasions when we have been slick and professional and are ahead of schedule, four episodes of Peppa Pig. (These are 'series-linked' to record automatically, providing an endless supply. I believe that we have 167 episodes saved. The joy of watching a previously-unseen one is unparalleled. I think that goes for me as well as Gertie...)

The quantity of episodes correlates directly with the number of minutes remaining before 6.50pm; which is the magic time by which we try to get upstairs for the bedtime story. Whilst Gertie is engaged with the final programme, I nip up with Gilby to give him his final bottle and put him to bed. He is generally very quick and easy (until about 1am, which is when he comes into his own, but that may be saved for another post).

Gertie chooses one or two books which Daddy usually reads. And it is after this that the complications begin. To indicate that we are summoned for the good-night-kiss, Daddy performs an elaborate stamping ritual on the floor of Gertie's bedroom. Everyone in the house now recognises this as the signal, and it includes anyone who may be around, however tenuous their link with Gertie. Any current visitor and occupant of the house must assemble in the bedroom, in line, to bestow their night-time greeting upon the waiting lady.

But there are some important rules of etiquette which must be observed. Sometimes, she will have insisted that Daddy 'hide' prior to our entrance. Whilst her bedroom is small, and it would be perfectly clear to anyone without severe visual impairment that Daddy is in fact stationed beneath the sofa bed (feet and most of his body protruding for all to see) or behind the door (a giveaway since it will not open properly), all must feign incredulity at Daddy 's disappearance. He must not be discovered too quickly for that will incur the wrath of Gertie.

A variation on this is for Gertie herself to hide. This will, without exception, mean that she is lying on her bed beneath her duvet, but because she is face down she believes that she is effectively hidden, and therefore entirely undetectable. Again, 'discovering' her whereabouts too early will invoke a tantrum too terrible to contemplate.

Once the 'hiding' has been safely navigated, and believe me, this is much easier said than done, the actual business of the kiss must be carefully performed. This is a ritual which extends and develops on virtually a daily basis. Gone are the days of a simple peck on the cheek whilst she is lying down. No. Currently, she must stand on the end of her bed, jump off between your legs for 'squeezy leg cuddle' before coming up the other side for a kiss. Last week you had to do a bed kiss and a floor kiss and ensure that the transition between the two corresponded to a careful set of rules which only Gertie herself was fully party to. It is, to steal a well-worn metaphor, a mine-field.

But it is always over by 7pm. Well, ok, 7.10pm. Maybe 7.15pm if we happen to really need to be organised because we are trying to go out.

I wonder if we might just have been ever-so slightly indulgent of the whims of our first-born?

Fright Night

It is summer, moonless night in the small village, starless and bible-black.

Suddenly a violent shriek erupts from somewhere outside the bedroom. A loud yelp follows almost instantaneously; then a few seconds later, a prolonged cry from the nursery.

I am terrified, and push my husband from the bed to investigate.

Daddy discovers that Gertie has wet the bed. Kempton, the new puppy has somehow found herself upstairs, inspite of the forbidding stairgate at the top. Gilby has also woken. I go downstairs to make up some milk and find myself clearing up a puddle of puppy-widdle. It doesn't help that I knock over the first bottle, spill watery formula everywhere and have to start again.

A sequence of events emerges. A sleepy-headed Gertie must have emerged with damp pyjamas from the bedroom to be confronted unexpectedly by the puppy, of whom she has a deep fear. She gave out an involuntary (and inhuman-sounding) scream. This woke her little brother, who was terrified by the commotion and rendered inconsolable. The milk was not enough to allay his fears and it took a good forty minutes to get him settled again.

So if we include Kempton's yelp, that is at least four of us who were frightened out of our wits last night. And two of us who had to clear up wee.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

Gertie has begun sleeping with her light on. This has only happened in the last few weeks but we've some how allowed it to become accepted practice.

One of us has then slipped in a couple of hours later and turned out the light, just before we go to bed. Sometimes we get caught and there is a small drama; most of the time there is no problem.

Gertie has been more tired of late however, and I had begun to suspect there was more to it than a simple fear of the dark. This was confirmed this evening. Gertie had been 'asleep' for a good hour when a large 'thump' was heard overhead.

This interrupted our football-viewing and required some investigation. Daddy tiptoed upstairs and slowly turned the door-handle of Gerties's room...to be confronted by a guilty Gertie, clad in bunny ears, fairy wings and iggle piggle trousers.

"I was just....dressing up." (Nothing, if not honest.)

It's lights out from now on!

For 'Transition' Read 'Chaos'

It's a 'period of transition' in our house at the moment. Is that the diplomatic expression for 'chaos'? Gertie turning three seems to have coincided with the delayed arrival of the 'terrible twos'...anyone got an explanation or a thought on that? But, in addition, the stair gates have gone up, the low-level ornaments are put away, the cot mattress lowered and the teething gel has come out.

Several things have happened simultaneously. As Gilby, at ten months, has finally recovered from a prolonged period of illnesses (very boring, no need to recap, but he now appears to be fighting fit for more than a week for the first time since January) it seems he has done all his development in one go. Suddenly, today, bottom teeth have broken through, and at the weekend he at last worked out how to crawl forwards. Fast. (The backwards shuffle was frustrating us all.) So he is off; suddenly no longer a helpless baby, but a teeth-gnashing infant who can go wherever he wants.

Usually Gilby goes down to sleep with no trouble whatsoever. (The trouble comes later in the night, but that is another story.) So I put him down to sleep a few nights ago and he didn't really seem to settle properly. There were a few mumbly-grumbly cries which gradually over a period of about ten minutes became more insistent.

Usually I would leave him; he sucks his thumb so is generally fine once he has found that. But no, this began to sound more distressed, and so I eventually went in to see what was going on. He had somehow managed to climb up and pull his entire cot canopy from its railing, and was sitting up in bed covered entirely with a white floor-length drape - giving him a ghostly profile in the semi-darkness. Very funny - and he seemed to find it so too as he watched his helpless parents collapse into fits of giggles.

I know I shouldn't laugh and it could have been dangerous, but it is just an example of how nothing is now safe, not even bedtime in his cot!

The Hardest Part is the Evening

Bon Jovi got it wrong when they said that the Hardest Part is the Night; no, the hardest part is most definitely the evening.

At three o'clock in the afternoon I could get a mother of the year award. Gilby is taking his nap whilst I do finger-painting with Gertie. The house is clean, the washing hung out to dry, the evening meal prepared.

Jump cut to two hours later. Potty-training Gertie and her little brother do synchronised poos. Hers in her knickers so that she enters the room John Wayne-style from the kitchen where she has left her uneaten supper. Both start screaming for my attention. Because Gilby is still at the breast it is a few seconds before I can reach Gertie. Suddenly the poo is no longer just in the knickers. Then she hits Gilby because she doesn't yet have my full and undivided attention. Toys are everywhere; now poo is too. The noise level in the household means that the neighbours are on the verge of phoning social services.

Daddy is not home for another hour and a half. Gilby has begun his evening feeding frenzy and will have me pinned in a chair for most of that time. Somehow I have to get both cleaned up and fed before CBeebies' Bedtime Hour begins, and restore some sense of order to the house. (Otherwise Daddy walks in and starts picking up discarded toys with a look on his face that asks what exactly I have been doing all day long.) This scenario is played out with various permutations every day; multiply stress factor by two if it happens to be a bath night.

He walks in just as we are finding out whether our entrance to the night garden will be by Ninky-Nonk or Pinky-Ponk. All is calm and clean; pyjamas are on and teeth brushed. He has no idea what the last ninety minutes have been like. I have no idea how I have survived them.