What Shall We Do With A Drunken Mummy?

You're no doubt familiar with the song, What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? in which verse after verse suggests different ways of sobering up or making fun of the poor seaman who has imbibed just that little bit too much.

Jamie and I had a very similar problem early this morning when Mummy arrived home steaming from Auntie Vicky's birthday bash.

To be fair, Jamie didn't actually see her until about 8 o'clock this morning but he was very much involved in the decision-making process throughout the night. Or, to put it another way, he didn't speak up against the approach I adopted.

With Jamie tucked up in bed and with Daddy making a late night cup of tea, the door bell rang and standing on the other side was a Mummy who had clearly had a very tiring evening. So much so that her legs were now unable to move. Or her arms. Or neck.

I've had a recurrence of back trouble in recent months, directly as a result of carrying Jamie around. But late last night it was a case of needs must - so I gave Mummy a fireman's (or should that be firefighter's?) lift all the way up to bed. (This was the only point over the next few hours when I was glad she hadn't had anything at all to eat at Auntie Vicky's do, thereby making her slightly less heavy than might otherwise have been the case).

There was no way I was going to get her contact lenses out so I settled for taking off her boots and leaving her to sleep on top of the bed. 20 minutes later I climbed in under the duvet beside her. 20 minutes after that, Mummy was sick on Daddy and that bit of the duvet.

Age (and fatherhood) has made me a little more responsible than previously so, rather than just give the duvet a wipe, I rolled Mummy off it, stripped off the covers and put her back on top of the bare duvet. I then slipped back underneath, turned the light off - and at this exact moment, Jamie began to yelp from the nursery.

I spent the next two hours - I kid you not - trying to get him to go back to sleep, all to no avail. I used every move I had, even resorting at one point to lying on the floor with my foot through the bars of his cot so he knew I was there.

After my 120 minutes of torment prior to surrender, I would normally have brought him into our room. But, by this stage, Mummy was sprawled right across the bed and, well, the place whiffed a bit. So Jamie and I headed into the spare room.

It took me about another half an hour to get him down - first he was excited at being somewhere different, then he made it clear that he wanted to sleep on the right side of the bed (i.e. my side) rather than the left. But it all worked out in the end and the two of us woke shortly after 7am.

Needless to say Mummy was still sleeping soundly. Indeed, unlike the poor sailor in the song, Mummy had no intention whatsoever of rising early this particular morning.

Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike are coming over this evening to babysit whilst Mummy and Daddy head off to our friend Jo's birthday disco and karaoke.

Perhaps it'll be Daddy's turn to walk the plank tomorrow morning.