Monday, 16 December 2013

Week 118- double Corrie, Ouija boards and River Dance style tantrums...

I feel like we've got two daughters at the moment.

The one who's a happy, chatty, Peppa Pig loving, cuddling little girl.

And the one who we attempt to put to bed.

Who's a tad like Regan from The Exorcist, post Ouija board.

I never learn.

I'd been showing off.

Banging on to my mum about how brilliant it was when they grown out of the restless sleeping.

This is the absolute antithesis of what I should have been doing. Which is keeping totally bloody schtum and accepting that Nancy had turned a corner. She was sleeping properly.

We'd even had a friend over to babysit who willing offered to do it AGAIN.


Nancy is now on an international-scale sleep strike.

Thing is, this only seems to be the case when we're at home.

We took her to a restaurant for a family meal.

The place was packed with people out for their Christmas dos. Really loud women pulling crackers and yelling their jokes.

And Nancy slept through the whole thing in her buggy. She'd even said to Ben about 7.30 that she'd 'like a little rest.'

Yet we can softly read her a bedtime story, carry her into bed, stroke her hair and tell her we'll see her in the morning.

She'll snuggle down. Close her eyes. 

And about a milli-second later, they'll ping wide open and she's slide out of bed, having instantly burst into tears.

What are you meant to do about that?

I mean, genuinely how are you meant to negotiate with someone who, one minute is telling you they love you and they'll see you at wakey time.

And the next they're screaming themselves maroon whilst stamping their feet, River Dance style?

I stupidly assumed we'd got our evenings back.

That watching a double Corrie on a Monday was more than just a pipe dream.

But no.

The 'being put to bed, feigning sleep, running out of bed screaming, being put to bed' cycle can go on for anything up to two hours.

But the real punch in the tits was when we had a friend round for dinner the other night, and Nancy confided in him that she, 'wakes up and cries and makes mummy and daddy sad and cross. Then I wake up again and sleep in their big bed.'

We have been stitched up good and proper, the pair of us.

And no matter how many times she promises pre-bath that she'll be a good girl at bedtime, the moment those pyjamas come on, Regan creeps out too.

So I'm hanging out for her to start believing in Father Christmas, then we can start using him as ammunition.

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