Kids are so fun but we all know they are secretly fucking with us. There are some universal truths in parenting and, much like Murphy’s Law, the rule of thumb is: anything that can go wrong will go wrong.
Dear darling baby of mine,
It’s three in the morning and I’m not myself. To be fair, you’ve dragged me out of bed at three am, which is officially within the ugly hours of the morning; nothing good ever happens between 2 and 4 am.
Sweetie, I can accept a 1.30am wakeup. At 1.30 in the morning, I can fool myself into thinking I’ve only just barely laid my head on the pillow so it’s no big deal. I still remember what it was like to dance on tables at one in the morning, so I can forgive a 1.30 wake up.
If you demand to see me at 4am I can tell myself you’ve slept through the night but accidentally woke too early. I’ve probably had four hours of sleep in a row, which is a winning effort for any parent; so 4am, while not ideal, is not the worst.
But 3am? It’s the middle of the night you ungrateful little turd, WHY WONT YOU LET ME SLEEP!?