The 4.30am starts have now become so regular that I walk round in such a fug that I can't work out if I've said things out loud to people, or just shouted them in my head.
I think it's because Nancy's teething again. Now, I can't begin to imagine how painful it is to have razor sharp teeth slicing through gums, and it must be a royal pain in the arse when you cry and scream, and it takes someone to clumsily ram a finger in your mouth to suss out what the problem is.
But seriously, how many teeth is she going to have?
Surely, she can just get on with the existing seven. I mean, it's not like she's grinding raw meat. It's all I can do to convince Nancy to suck a dairylea triangle.
But she seems to have found something that relieves her discomfort. Pulling up my t-shirt, finding the most wobbly, malleable bit of my tummy, and throwing her head at it.
This started off as a bit of a laugh a couple of weeks ago.
But it's happening when ever I sit down now.
She drags her walker round till it's pointing in my direction, gets a determined look in her eye and starts waddling at speed towards me.
And she's getting strong. Now, I don't claim to be Siobhan Hyland (Britian's strongest woman, who used to be a fatty, I totally looked her up on Wikepedia), but I thought I could at least hold my own against a one year old.
Turns out I can't.
I can't get her to ungrip my t-shirt before she gives her teeth a work out on my stomach. I can't unpick her fingers from the cupboard door full of plastic boxes and potatoes before she scatters them all over the floor. And I can't get a pen out of her hand if she's mad keen on crawling round the house with it.
I think there's a moment of clarify after your child turns one when you realise you've got to get a grip. That you're not going to get more sleep, more of a social life or more svelte unless you get a plan together.
And that it's not OK to wander round the house in something that narrowly passes the sniff test, because you assume that no-one will drop by.
I had one such moment this week.
Nancy's teething has given her the most awful tummy, poor girl. I mean bum explosions of such epic proportions that Ben panic carried her through the flat to the bathroom leaving a Hansel and Gretel path of diarrhoea behind him.
And as I washed Nancy clean, Ben set to saving the carpet with a cloth and Vanish.
Now the eureka moment was when I saw that he'd used the plastic box I give the childminder Nancy's sandwiches in, to fill with water to clean the floor. And I started going on about how I would have to go to Argos to buy a new one.
And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the window.
I was wearing a t-shirt I'd worn the day before, slept in, and was strongly considering wearing for another day. Jogging bottoms that had so little elastic in the waist that Nancy only needs to give them a gentle tug and they're round my ankles. And I was getting cross about Tupperware.
So. I'm chucking out all my pre-Nancy clothes that make me look pregnant/ too old/ too young / too cheap/ too wacky in an ex-art student way.
And I'm going to get fit.
Or at least commit to wearing the slendertone though the whole of X Factor.
Kelly Holmes was 34 when she won the 800 and 1500m.
I'm 34 now.
I've probably not given myself enough time to train for that.
But I can at least do enough sit ups that Nancy's face doesn't entirely disappear next time she's looking for a bit of respite for her gums.