Ahh, the song of the evening! Also read: “Daaaddy, daaaddy, daaaaady!” Sometimes, “MummyDaddyMummyDaddy”. Imagine a comic nee-naw ambulance noise – it has the same tone and pitch as that.
The routine goes like this:
Dinner, teeth, story, PJs, bed. Find water bottles, settle kids into their bunk bed, say goodnight, go downstairs, wait. Whatever you do, DON’T SIT DOWN AND GET COMFY. Not just yet. Wait, and listen. Sure enough, in a minute or so…
“Muuuummy. Muuuuuuummy. Mummy Mummy Mummy.” It’s not shouted or screamed, it’s musical and persistant. If I don’t respond in a ‘reasonable’ time then the key change happens and it gets higher by a few tones, and slightly crescendo.
I nip back upstairs. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“I can’t find Cat Cat”
“Here she is, under your arm”
“Thank you! Goodnight Mummy”
Back downstairs. Back to waiting and listening. Again. NO SITTING DOWN.
“Muuuummy, muuuummy, muuummy”
Back upstairs, slightly more heavily this time.
“It’s not really that important, but… I love you. And I need the toilet”
“That’s okay – let’s go to the toilet”
Toilet trip complete.
“Goodnight, and try not to call me unless it’s important”
Back upstairs, feet deliberately treading loudly on the steps this time.
“What is it now?” (still in a nice voice you understand, but teeth gritted)
“Umm. The curtain is open a little bit and Molly just moved and my duvet is crumpled and my water is empty and I’m scared if I have a bad dream”
Sort the things out. Firmly kiss goodnight again, hoping it’s the last time. Back downstairs, wait a moment before sitting down on the sofa, putting on an episode of Masterchef and making a cup of tea / G&T (depending on how the evening has gone so far).
“Muuuummy. Muuummy. Muuummy. Muuummmy… Daaaaady. Mummy Daddy Mummy Daddy Muuuuummy Daaaaaaddy”
This is probably 4/5 bedtimes. Sometimes the call just happens once or twice. Sometimes it’s one child, sometimes both. Sometimes they both keep calling repeatedly until I almost lose the plot. I just want to read some Harry Potter, kiss goodnight, head downstairs and know I have my evening (what is left of it) to flump, or tidy, or sew, or exercise or whatever it is I’m trying to achieve. Usually that’s an episode of a cookery programme or Game of Thrones and a cup of tea. I shouldn’t complain – before I know it they’ll be staying out far too late with their friends and I will miss the days of tucking them in at night and reading them stories and repeatedly adjusting duvets / teddies / water bottles.