There were signs that I needed an early night (like a three day headache, and the zero sleep that comes when your baby is in the midst of a developmental leap). But the clincher came while I was making dinner. I promptly dropped a heavy oven dish on my toe, sat down on the floor and wept uncontrollably for quite some time.
It was a tanty a two-year-old would’ve been proud of.
I needed someone to give me a bottle (of wine) and put me in my crib. I didn’t bother finishing dinner, unfortunately for Mr Chick. (To be fair he could’ve cooked the Thai chicken balls himself, but I hear the kebab shop around the corner was far more appealing.)
I muttered something like, ‘Bed’ and hobbled in there with a swollen toe and a bad case of the hiccups.
The plan was to have five hours of straight sleep before Charlie did his midnight dummy spit. I’d have five hours of the bed TO MYSELF, without either of the boys in it, until Mr Chick came in at midnight. It would be the night Charlie would go back to sleep after I found his dummy and gave it back to him. He would turn over, the adorable little cherub, and start gently snoring, and he would gently snore in his cot until 7am, whereupon I would wake, bright as a daisy having had the entire half of the bed to myself, and the day would begin in a jolly, well-rested manner.
Of course, Charlie woke about 2 seconds after I fell asleep (so around 7.02pm) and announced loudly that if I was sleeping in the big bed he should too, whereupon he proceeded to thrash, writhe, moan, giggle, pull my hair, kick me in the stomach, cry, scream in his sleep, snort, fart, pinch me and give me nipple cripples until I brought him onto my pillow and cuddled him back to sleep.
This worked at around 3.30am, and he then woke around 5.30am for a bottle.
Lesson learned: From now on I plan to stay up super late and do Deadwood marathons.