There was the real possibility the children were going to tell me what time I should go to bed
My wife went out for dinner with a friend last night. She rarely does this, but I am always delighted when she does, as it’s nice for her to spend some time not being a mother. This sounds like the sort of opening sentence to a Guardian column designed to make people think the writer is a wonderful, understanding husband, but I mean it. I am almost always out working in the evenings, and so I was actually relishing the prospect of doing bedtime.
The second my wife left, I could sense our three boys realise that piss was there for the taking. We stagger our boys’ bedtimes by half an hour, and the two younger ones came to see me to explain that they couldn’t sleep. They have never told my wife they can’t sleep, which means one of two things: