Big Daddy wins early morning battle

This morning was a bit of a nightmare with the kids.

We were awoken at 4am sharp by the sound of Ciaran crying and demanding a night-time feed (he's 6 months old now and we thought those nights were long gone). So Daddy kicked off the bedsheets reluctantly and trundled downstairs to warm up his milk.

Mummy took over with the feeding and Daddy gladly tumbled back into bed.

Then, at 6.50am, Ben decided sleep was for the weak and woke us all up with the pitter patter of tiny feet and a faint shout. Usually, a 6.50am wake-up call is fine. In fact, it's pretty normal for us.

The difference this morning was Mummy & Daddy had been out on a rare social visit last night and had got to bed rather later than we liked, so-to-speak.

So, the day had begun with a shot from a starting pistol and I felt like I was still half-a-sleep in the starting blocks. I took Ben downstairs only to hear the gibbering of Ciaran. The little blinker had woken up too.

Mummy pleaded with me to give her a lie-in and look after both boys for a while. Bleary-eyed, Daddy gave in. Aren't I a really nice Irish Dad? Aren't I?

It's was kind of like a wrestling tag-team changeover - Mummy tagged Daddy, and Daddy entered the ring to start battle.

The ring announcer (sleep deprivation fiddles with your mind) blasted on the PA system....in the red corner, weighing in at (hey, that's private).... Big Daddy..................and in the blue corner, weighing in at a combined 2 and half stone........The Terror Twins.

I thought the announcer could have been a bit more original. The Terror Twins? Come on.

Things were plain-sailing to begin with.

I had Ciaran's bottle ready in no time, although he wasn't very hungry and only drunk about 30ml - no wonder - he'd already had his morning bottle - at bloomin' 4am.

Ben was sat on his potty under instruction to do a wee or a poo when he was ready.

The finishing touches were applied by CBeebies, who locked Ben in a trance - more of a parental bride to keep him on the potty so he learns....one day....to do his business there, and not at Paul's house.

Then, just before 9am, things started to get chaotic. Really chaotic.

A bad smell wafted up my nose as I came back in from the kitchen. Ben had left three steaming turds on the carpet, two partially trampled, stains elsewhere on the carpet and mess all up his legs and pyjamas.

I scrambled around for the anti-bacterial spray and j-cloths. But then, Ciaran started screaming. He'd pooed too, thankfully in his nappy.

The Terror Twins were running riot around Big Daddy, the crowd screamed (sleep deprivation was still fiddling with my mind) and then started chanting..."Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!".

I was flat out on the floor at this stage...literally...scrubbing the carpet when I craned my neck around to see Mummy at the top of the stairs, looking a bit more rested after her lie-in and strutting down the stairs and up to ringside.

The crowd were going nuts now and Mummy calmly pulled up the ropes and entered the ring.

Suddenly, it was a fair fight again - 2 V 2 - and it wasn't too long before the bout was over. Big Daddy and Mummy soon restored order, the carpet was scrubbed, bums were cleaned, I took Ben upstairs for a bath and Mummy locked Ciaran in his highchair for some toast. The battle was over!

Thank goodness, but not after much graft, odour and sweat.

I think it's my turn for a lie-in next week.