The sixth sense

This morning Zac, sweet angel that he isn't, woke up at 4.15.

The reason? His cot toy batteries had run out. This is the machine which plays lullabies and projects soothing images onto his ceiling whenever he cries or presses a button. The same device which he has been actively telling me to leave switched off for the past month, but which Heather put on last night. The same infernal contraption that requires me – bleary-eyed and three-quarters asleep – to unclip it from his bed rails, unscrew the battery compartment cover with my thumbnail, go downstairs to find four replacement batteries, and then reassemble and reattach the whole thing while, in the meantime, my two-year old boy watches on, repeating "Daddy. Toy not working. Fix it, please" ad infinitum.

Yes, that toy.

Of course, by the time I finish the job, the damage is done and Zac is wide awake. Worse still, he won’t let me leave without crying. Not wanting to wake either Heather or Toby up, I stay. At such times, I can normally fob him off with my iPhone and leave him to watch music videos or Angelina Ballerina quietly while I sleep on his floor. But not today. Oh no. Today he wants to play. Thanks for that, kiddo. It’s not like I have an early morning meeting with our MD that I quite fancied being awake for, is it?

How do they know these things? Is it some kind of sixth sense? After all, it’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened. You can pretty much guarantee that on the day you are running 20 minutes late for an appointment he will turn round to you with a furrowed brow and say, “Isaac’s done a poo.” Or that he will unerringly do the one thing you absolutely do not want him to do at the precise moment you are distracted by something else.

I am deeply suspicious, and deeply disappointed that he hasn’t turned this talent into something more productive, like picking lottery numbers.

Okay. Rant over.