Julie Jay: We get 40 winks after hoodwinking son into sleeping in his room

I had made my peace with Ted sleeping in between us until his debs, but, thankfully, for him and for us, he has become enlightened about the pluses of camping out in his own leaba. For a long time, our eldest viewed having his own room as nothing short of solitary confinement, but with more soft furnishings.

After a few years of cajoling, he is finally sold on the idea that a twin room with his brother is the preferred option. And the reasons are many. Firstly, all of his books are within reach, arranged in a bookcase engineered for a toddler’s level, so that any adult looking to have a rummage must kneel, with the added danger that, depending on individual flexibility, they might not get back up again.

The low height dissuades anyone over 21 from having a proper leaf through the shelves, thus allowing Ted a hiding place in plain sight for his various treasures, including his birthday badge, Daddy’s keys, and Mammy’s ATM cards.

The next plus is the bedding — it is Paw Patrol, obviously — and Mammy has arranged all his toys in order of preference along the side of the bed, so he can ensure each one is fulfilling its teddy duties and remove any dead weight as he sees fit. It also keeps his teddies on their toes, in case anyone gets complacent. 

Thus far he is loving his room, and we are loving the legroom in our bed. However, much as I bemoaned my lack of duvet over the years, due to my tiny interloper, I wasn’t quite expecting the little guy to transition to doing his own thing so quickly. Listening to The Skinny Confidential Him and Her podcast recently, Kourtney Kardashian talked about co-sleeping with her daughter until she was 12 and her son until he was seven. 

Although it gave me a momentary pang to realise my days of sleeping with the children might be numbered, I would be lying if I said having the bed to ourselves again has not ultimately been a really positive thing.

The results of this seemingly minor change have been pretty transformative. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but things suddenly feel a bit more ordered, like everyone has their little place.

However, the one-year-old’s feelings have been decidedly more mixed about the new sleeping arrangements. While he loves getting the giggles in with his elder brother before bedtime, the mornings have proved a little more challenging for our baby, JJ. 

He has had to reconcile himself with Ted’s terrible dawn habits, which include turning on all lights within nearby proximity and singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on repeat, while simultaneously jumping up and down on the spot, all before JJ has had a chance to register that another day beckons.

Of course, it also means JJ is going to bed a little earlier, because, contrary to norms, our younger one stayed up a little after our eldest went to bed, purely because he just loved the craic. 

Now, like any good swim team, we are trying to synchronise as much as possible, with minimal ripples and optimum daytime performance as our goal.

When nighttime descends, it is incredibly satisfying to peer into their room and spot the two boys sound asleep in their beds.

Dare I say, I was so proud of our endeavours that I almost felt slightly smug. However, such smugness quickly disappeared the night I realised I had forgotten to purchase ingredients for a charity cake sale the next day.

Refusing to give in shop-bought cakes two weeks in a row, I rustle up a chocolate biscuit cake, because melting is cooking, and I don’t care if the TV chef says otherwise.

As I finally crawl into bed a half an hour later, I let out a yelp. I have kneeled onto some kind of dino-transformer thingie, and now, surveying the damage, my knee looks like a swollen, red face. 

Hobbling back, I stand on a piece of Lego, and suddenly I feel like Joe Pesci‘s character in Home Alone, contending with a young Macaulay Culkin’s rather sadistic obstacle course.

When I finally remove all booby traps from my side of the bed and lie down, my husband turns to me, giggling.

“I feel like we’re having an affair,” he whispers.

But before he even thinks about getting the shift in, I remember something that makes my blood run cold.

“We forgot the bins!” I say, and Fred trundles off with the sigh of a man who knows he won’t be getting the shift anytime soon.

By the time he returns, I am asleep and apparently snoring, which, given my dainty status, cannot possibly be true.

If my husband is reading this, please know I am officially giving you the green light to shift someone else. 

But don’t even think about putting another woman’s bins out — that would be an affair too far.