Good Morning Medicine Cabinet
6am. Didsbury Son is not too happy. The cries, whoops and general 5am rooster impressions by my pearl-headed Princess have woken him up. I have been playing powerlifting a wriggling 30lbs for most of the last three hours with my 70s footballer boy; it’s business as usual.
We swap. I have managed to coax Didsbury Son back to sleep with promise of an episode of Brooklyn 99 before he becomes the lacrosse version of Billy Elliot and Didsbury Wife has tagged me. I’d got the mighty headed. 70s bouffed baby boy back to sleep through the three horsemen of the night; milk, change and Calpol. My back up is a PowerPoint of lambs jumping fences. So two rooms down and I am now in the nursery. I haven’t been here since a teething incident just after midnight.
My pearl-headed Princess is dancing along to the Ninky Nonk and the scent coming from her sleepy head soothes joints and muscles that at 39 years, 11 months and a few more years, need an ice pack after a game of infant footy.
This scenario and versions of it are being repeated across the globe, even in Chorlton. Pearly Princess is now hitting the iPad ( we officially made it her god parent as they spend so much time together), Didsbury Son has given up on his own bed and there are three of us squeezed on a single bed as the Ninky Nonk continues it’s imperious journey and I try and decide which came first, the baby or the Voltarol patch?