Every single morning starts the same. 4am. And yes we have black out blinds, and yes we have a sodding Gro-clock, and yes we have tried later bedtimes, earlier bedtimes, no naps, naps, more food, less food.
The only thing we haven’t tried at this point is a tranquilliser gun, but if they manufactured a toddler safe medically approved one – I think we would go for it.
But that’s ok though because he is three now and is fairly self sufficient. He can be left to enjoy squash and toast, playing with his trains in his room specifically designed for self sufficient play with trainess. He even has his own telly now. Happy days.
The foil to our cunning plan is two fold. Firstly he can not seem to understand and follow very simple instructions and two, we only went and buggered it all up by having a second child.
So I creep into his room at four and tell him to stop that endearing shrieking noise he is making. I pop on ‘Tale of the Brave’ a lovely Thomas the tank engine movie that if they ever lose the script for I can speed type it for them and if it becomes a West-end play I am more than capable of playing ‘Marian’ (Olivia Colman no less) without any prompts. I get him a refreshment and start the simple instruction part of the soul destroying routine.
“Ok now darling, it’s ok for you to stay in your room and watch Thomas and play with your trains, ok darling? That’s fine. BUT, and I must emphasise… BUT please, please, please be very very quiet because Daddy is asleep and your baby brother is asleep. I don’t want you to wake up your baby brother ok? So be really really quiet. Ok?”
All of this is sang in a Julie Andrews type whisper.
“Ok” he nods. Job done.
Within seconds, through the wall, I hear the following:
- Some sort of train based sports day is taking place, with races, hurdles and an awards ceremony. Lots of cheering, clapping and reading out of train names.
- Wailing and sobbing intermittently each time his track becomes detached.
- An entire Shakespeare tragedy is being played out starring twatting Thomas and fucking Ferdinand.
- Singing of entirely made up, and significantly long songs.
- Stamping of feet which could give a herd of wildebeest a run for their money.
- “MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY?”
- “DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY?”
- I want pink milk!
- I want cwiisssps!
- A top class impression of Elmo on acid having an intense conversation with someone in space with no hearing aid and no phone.
During this I go in and out of his room attempting to sssshhh him and explain again that it is very early and I need him to be quiet. He nods. And repeat.
My voice soon turns from Mary poppins to someone possessed by the Devil trying to still be seductive. Have you ever shouted at someone while still whispering? It’s quite a feat.
And then I hear it, the short but distinctive gurgle of the baby brother awakening from his slumber.
And so we are up. It’s 4.30. And by ‘we’ – I mean me – after all, the husband “has to go to work” doesn’t he? While I pick my bum for the day.
Arses. All of them arses.
Neighbours – I’m sorry.