Well, it wasn’t really. After two decent nights (and I can barely believe that a 5.30am wake up counts as decent, but it does. Childfree people take note) last night was the kind of night where you think it would probably be easier to give up on sleep and do something else productive, if only you had the mental capacity to do so.
The baby was up every hour, trying to poo but not quite being awake enough to do it. By the time I’d drifted off, he slept for another ten minutes or so and then we’d both be up again. So yes, it wasn’t going that well. But the fact that the toddler had done a big wee on the potty without complaint, I had just about managed to get myself dressed while the kids slept and we were all downstairs having breakfast (or they were, breakfast for parents is a bit of a luxury) seemed like a relatively good start. I’d even made myself a cup of tea.
Breakfast eaten, the baby was securely locked in the cage – I mean playpen – whilst the toddler amused herself with an impossibly hard jigsaw bought by a sadistic relative.
It seemed like the perfect time to attempt to have a bit of me time, which is parent slang for going to the toilet in peace and quiet.
No sooner had I sat down when I heard the living room door close, the baby gates at the bottom and top of the stairs (which I hadn’t locked, I’m clearly too soft) swing open and a repetitive call of “Mummy, whatchooo doing!”.
Predictably the bathroom door swings open. “Mummy, whatsiss mummy?” she says pointing to her pyjama trousers.
You probably see where this is going, but I didn’t. Having a feel of the outside of her trousers and predicting that somehow she had got her breakfast banana down there, I reach my hand up the leg… and retrieve a nice big poo.
Note to self, always remember to put the nappy back on before you leave the room.
Never drank my cup of tea either.
Happy Monday everybody!