Last night, I was exhausted by the time it was the boys’ bedtime, aware that I still needed to tidy up the toys, stack the dishwasher, ring my Mum, do another load of washing and various other, small things, before I could sink onto the couch with my book.

I was pretty clear I thought, about the fact that once they were in bed there was to be no getting up unless some kind of major emergency occurred. Did it make any difference? No it did not!

It was an hour before they settled down and in that time, S. came down “for a last cuddle“, Z. got out of bed a hundred times and threw mega tantrums when I put him back, then he discovered that if he wet his bed with the inch of water in his night-time drink, I would have to come and fix it.

I changed the sheets and removed the water bottle but a few minutes later, there was that cry again; “Mummy, I can’t go to bed! My bed is WET!”

He’d gone to the bathroom, got a mouthful of water and spat it on the sheets!!!

I put a towel over the wet patch and told him he had to go to sleep. He was outraged. “I can’t sleep onna towel! It’s not comfy!”  Too bad. I put him in, pulled the door to and left the room. He went to sleep. Whew. 

When I rang my mother, she rolled around laughing and talked about chickens coming home to roost and that it was just the sort of stuff I’d done when I was his age. When she’d stopped laughing she gave me some good advice and soothing words and by then I was laughing too.

So today I put Z. into bed for his after-lunch nap and went up later to check on him. He was on S’s bed, reading a book.

“What are you doing?” I asked, “You’re supposed to be having a sleep.”

“I’m just reading.” he answered casually, “The sun is still here, it isn’t time for sleeping.” and then he gave me a wide, engaging grin to show me he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t in the least bit sleepy, so I brought him downstairs.

Since then he’s been an absolute delight. He’s been kissing me and then saying “Look at the kissprints Mummy. You’ve got kissprints everywhere.”

and then a bit later, looking up from his book to where I am typing at the computer; “ You’re my Mummy.”

“Yes, I am your Mummy.” smiling

“You’re my Mummy and I love you. You’re a GEENYUS!” (it’s his new word)

They drive me crazy but they’re just lovely. It’s the paradox of parenting.