But that's nothing new.
However today I am totally fed up with the people who insist on making noises the very second I've managed to get Betty to sleep.
Since Betty has learnt to stand independently by pulling herself up using the nearest item of furniture, bedtime has become a bit of an issue. Don't get me wrong; when she's gone, she is G-O-N-E. It's the getting her to go that causes the irritation. So, after doing the whole bath time, tea time, reading time, bed time routine, either me or Dave then spend the next 7,648 years of our lives marching, increasingly frustratedly, in and out of The Poop's room, plucking her smiling, standing up little body out of the cot, and lying her, once again, beneath the covers. As we turn our backs to move away out of the room, we hear her mattress squeak as she immediately pulls herself to standing again. At which point, unable to take it any more, we crumble to the floor, assume the foetal position and shriek uncontrollably.
We then wipe our tears, gather our thoughts, and go downstairs to instruct the other parent to take over because after patiently re-bedding her for the 87th time, "she just looked me in the eye and actually laughed".
Once one of us has resigned ourselves to shouldered this evening mental breakdown, she suddenly gives up the ghost and goes to sleep. Ah. Thank God.
(Of course you never, ever, ever, EVER, say out loud that you do actually believe that she has gone to sleep, because you can solid gold guarantee that such laughably foolish behaviour only serves to invite to your doorstep a world of late night hurt and woe, spent pacing the landing and muttering under the breath you would happily no longer have in your body, if it meant that death itself could in fact save you from this incessant, incensing, incandescent whirlpool of unfathomable torment.)
So. She in bed. She's "calm". "Restful". "Settled".
And that...then...that moment RIGHT THERE is when humanity rolls out its prize winning idiots and the fun really begins.
On a nightly basis, you can set your watch by the fact that, as soon as Dave or I sink down into the settee one of thirteen things will happen:
1) I will sit on the remote and, with my incredibly dexterous ass magically manage to sit on the '+ VOL' button.
2) The doorbell will go.
3) A distant electronic toy will suddenly kick into life.
4) Next door will start mowing their lawns. With a chainsaw.
5) Dave will smash a full glass jar of coffee on the kitchen floor (and neither of us drink coffee).
6) The house phone will ring. And it will be hidden. In the garden.
7) A random shelf will fall off the wall for no reason whatsoever. Preferably in Betty's room.
8) The Air Ambulance will start circling our estate, and select Dave's car roof as the nearest workable helipad.
9) Some idiot will set off a firework. In our loft.
10) The cast of 'Stomp' will begin rehearsals for their next West End spectacular on next door's stairs.
11) A rogue tradesman will take to our drive with a pneumatic drill.
12) An episode of violent diarrhoea will force my panicking body back up the stairs to howl, splutter and rasp its way through the production of an audibly traumatic stool.
13) A 20,000 strong fanbase of novelty pop enthusiasts will burst through our front door and Agado and Conga their way up our stairs in anticipation of the one night only Black Lace revival scheduled to commence immanently upon our amped up landing.
So, please, please, pretty please, if you have ever contributed, even the tiniest, most insignificant hum, to the raging Decibilian disgrace above -
STOP IT NOW.
*political activist walks passed shouting down megaphone*
You have GOT to be kidding me...