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It’s 3am I’m woken by something loud and blood curdling, I stumble out of bed mid-dream and it takes me a 10th of a second to realise I am not in fact a fairy princess in a tower in the forest but a mother and that blood curdling scream is my youngest daughter, doing her best Velociraptor impression in her cot. I walk round the bed, grunt at my husband and prod him simultaneously, he gets up Pavlov-like and stumbles to the stairs to get the statutory ounce of milk to settle the baby.

There begins the process of teamwork so slick if we were co-directors of a company we’d be making millions. I locate the dummy somewhere beneath the cot, he brings up the bottle of milk, I locate the child somewhere inside the cot and pick her up. He looks at me and even in the darkness I know he is asking ‘Calpol?” (she’s teething, we’re not gratuitous medicators – feel that’s important given the public nature of this blog). I nod. He locates and administers.

I sit down with the baby, he passes the milk, I feed, she cries and pushes the bottle away.

Plan B.

He takes the child and starts rocking furiously whilst singing “rock a bye baby” I meanwhile find a clean nappy and a baby wipe.

He repositions child in cot, I set about nappy change with the added complication of the most complex baby gro known to mankind.  She’s soaking.  We look at each other, look at her and simultaneously utter “Ah..”

He picks her up, rocks, sings, I retreat quietly.

Child returns to land of fairy princesses.

We stumble back to bed and hope she’s going to sleep.

Team work.


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