My daughter was making so much noise in her cot this morning I thought we had burglars.
I had just put her back to bed for her post-breakfast nap and decamped to the bathroom to finally have my shower and get ready for the day when I heard a banging noise.
Not a quiet, inoffensive, background-noise kind of banging but a real persistent thumping, demanding of my attention.
I always expect to hear some noise coming from my daughter's bedroom when I first put her in her cot. It is normally the sound of her moaning – probably at the injustice of me making sure she gets enough sleep – or chatting away to the colourful characters hanging down from her mobile – but this thumping noise made me stop in my tracks.
There I was clutching onto my toothbrush listening intently. Burglars or baby, burglars or baby, I was thinking. Thump, thump thump. I can't stress the force that appeared to be going into this noise and its loudness. Thump, thump, thump. Now let's think rationally about this. It's not going to be burglars. No, do not even think about creeping downstairs to check. No one's trying to kick the front door down. Thump, thump, thump. OK I'll just stick my head out the bathroom door and see if I can get a clearer idea where the noise is coming from.
Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. Well at least that explains it. As soon as I stuck my head out onto the landing I could quite clearly hear the noise was coming from my daughter's bedroom and if I was not mistaken sounded very much like the sound of her cot banging against the wall. How on earth she was managing to wriggle around enough to make that clanging noise I have no idea but there we are, mystery solved.
This is not the first time both me and my husband have heard strange banging noises coming from upstairs whilst we are downstairs in the evening having put my daughter to bed. Sometimes it sounds like she is clambering out of her cot and making her way downstairs. We almost expect to see her little face peering over the bannisters, appealing with her eyes to be allowed to come back downstairs.
I imagine that one day we're going to end up re-enacting that hilarious scene from Roald Dahl's book Matilda when she hides a parrot up the chimney to scare her detestable parents. For anyone who is not aware of it, the Wormwood family are all sat around the television one evening when they hear sinister voices. They decide to investigate, certain burglars have broken in and proceed single file into the next room, each wielding a household object as a weapon, only to find a parrot in its cage wedged up the chimney-breast.
I have visions of me holding onto my husband's dressing gown cord as he edges slowly up the stairs brandishing a rolled up copy of Cycling Weekly – though if we ever do have intruders I do hope he arms himself with something a bit more substantial. We'll tiptoe our way into our daughter's bedroom dreading who we are going to find in there with her and there she will be, my daughter, sat up in bed having an in-depth conversation with her teddy bear, a big grin on her face and not a care in the world, and most significantly, not a burglar in sight.