9.45pm. Bed. Mmmm. Early night. Drift off to ominous sound of baby grinding teeth.

11.10pm. Wake up to husband aerating doona; warming cold hands on belly. Swear.

1.17am. Wake up to baby slamming her head into mine. Pushing cold feet into my belly (note for tomorrow: socks to bed) and dragging her toenails down my thighs (note for tomorrow: cut nails).

1.51am. Baby stops squirming. Drag her across to her sidecar cot and straitjacket her with pile of blankets.

2.15am. Wake to loud satisfied groans of dog rubbing his back on carpet (note for tomorrow: Frontline dog).

2.25am. Still awake. Go to toilet (note for tomorrow: pelvic floor exercises). Tuck baby back into blankets she’s kicked off.

4.32am. Baby back on my head, scrabbling at chest: ‘hold boobie’.

4.45am. Baby asleep. Dog asleep. Husband asleep. Surrender to sandwich effect. Lie staring at ceiling planning tonight’s dinner.

5.39am. Husband grinding teeth: swift elbow to ribs.

5.55am. Loud yawns and sighs to stage left. Stage whisper: ‘Are you awake?’. ‘No, I’m asleep.’

6.20am. Baby sits up and begins rendition of ‘I’m a little teapot.’ I open one eye. ‘Good morning mama!’ Groan; head under doona.

6.55am. Emerge puffy-eyed. Husband: ‘Maybe you need some iron supplements. You seem to be so tired all the time.’