Wanted: Sleep. Will pay good money.

Wanted: Sleep. Will pay good money.

It's official. My children hate me. For what seems like the millionth night in a row, I have failed to achieve more then a "light doze" at any given point throughout the night. This of course does not count the coma I eventually fall into five minutes before the alarm goes off and the endless loop that is now my life begins again.

The small one is at the peak (I hope, dear god I hope this is the peak!) of her "fussy" period. This is a time I had forgotten about. Surely the Snot Queen could never have gone through such a hideous phase, surely I'd have remembered it and solemnly vowed never to procreate again.

Well, it seems Mother Nature (that canny ol'bitch) has a lot to answer for. You know that hormone that makes us forget exactly how bad labour was - or at least remember it in soft focus? A similar process seems to be at work for the few months of infanthood as my mother assures me that YES, SQ did go through this and that YES, I did call her at 2am in an effort to save my sanity and prevent her grandaughter from being sold to the highest bidder.

Well, after this last week, I am on the verge of GIVING our newest arrival to anyone who will take her (and of course return her safe and sound when this "fussy" period ends and the infant acne clears.)

For anyone who does not have children or for whom infanthood is nothing more then a distant, fuzzy memory, the fussy period is marked by windiness (the kind which no amount of back patting can seemingly dislodge) crying and a general dissatisfaction with life which to me seems to be highly premature as as far as I'm concerned, you never have it quite so good as when you're a baby. The fussy period generally coincides with the eruption of infant acne which means your angry red infant is now an angry, red, spotty infant.

To add insult to injury, she has the most efficient digestive system I 've ever seen which means that after she finishes devouring the contents of my breasts, all it takes is a quick flip to the upright position to produce a man sized burp followed by the ejection of any and all excess milk from her tummy. Said excess milk generally ends up coating whoever is unlucky enough to be holding her.

The remainder of her meals are then forcefully expelled into an increasingly messy series of curry coloured nappies, the majority of which immediately leak onto my lap and/or the furniture.

So why do we persist? Why, if the tiny terrors are so blatantly antisocial, are the classifieds not filled with "free to good home" ads for wayward infants?

Because mother nature has yet another trick up her sleeve. Just as the gassiness, crying and general irritability reach their peak, just as their little eyes cross with the effort of expelling yet another high velocity poo, just as you realize you literally have NOTHING to wear that is not covered in some form of bodily fluid, just as you reach the end of your rope and are on the verge of placing that ad - they smile.

A great big, googly eyed, off kilter gummy grin that reaches in and grabs you by the heart, giving you the strength to get through another sleepless night.

Survival of the cutest. Infant Darwinism at it's finest.

Right, I'm off for my nap now..