This is the sight that greeted my husband as he went to wake our almost-2 year old daughter this morning. It’s a blurred picture, completely out of focus. This is because he was shaking with fear as he took it.

I blame the wee.

The stench of it, apparently, was rather strong. There were patches in at least three corners of the room.

Last night was the first night Frog slept in her cot, without the prison bars on, you see. Despite sleeping in a proper bed on our trip to Devon, the novelty of being in her own big girl’s bed was clearly too much to handle.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she did everything.

This included:

• Throwing her teddies a party at 12am, 1am, 2am and 3am.

• Getting up stealthily at 7am and taking off her pyjamas and nappy, before going into each corner of the room and marking her territory, rather like a feral cat.

• Emptying an entire box of nappy bags and baby wipes.

• Taking every book off the shelf.

• Putting on ten pairs of socks. And then weeing on them.

• Running back into bed and feigning sleep as her father arrived in her bedroom to bring her morning milk. (Two minutes later, he was a broken man.)

It is now the second night of Freedom. And, almost two hours after being put to bed, my child is still running amok upstairs.

I give it 24 hours before the prison bars are replaced.

As quick as lightning

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