The hugely unnecessary alarm goes off at 5.45 am. The diva has already been up for some time, tunelessly working her way through the Disney back catologue she stores in the jukebox of her mind. The Incredible Hulk has found something solid to bang on the bars of his cot at regular intervals whilst practicing his entire vocabulary at maximum volume. Seeing as this currently only includes “car” and “more” it’s getting a little repetitive. We’re all awake. And so the scowling begins.
Mr Mess Stress and Fancy Dress is absolutely sure he is more tired than me. He knows he was up with the kids more than me last night, without even asking how much I was up. I can see from his face that I am as responsible for this as I would be if it had been me who was inconsolable with grief about my unlocatable teddy. As if I had somehow worked my way to the corner of the cot and got my nose a bit squashed against the plastic train. He assures me that he was in with the Incredible Hulk for at least an hour last night. As a general rule any nocturnal statistics offered out at this point in the morning have been greatly exaggerated. If he claims he was up 4 times, it was no more than twice. If he was in there for an hour, it’s probably because he fell asleep face down on the hulks bedroom floor, while he l
ovingly held his hand till they both passed out.
He can’t remember that I took the diva to the toilet at 4 am. He wasn’t there when I calmed her down after the emotionally scaring nightmare she had about her cousin not sharing her Barbies. He doesn’t have the full picture.
I was up twice, so clearly I’ve told him it was 6 times and that he can rest assured, that I am DEFINITELY more tired than him.
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