Recently, a little boy I know acquired two teeth.
Mummy got up every, single time he cried and cuddled him back to sleep. Mummy rushed to the shops with no makeup on and bought the last two bottles of Calpol. Mummy wrestled him to the bed while she tried (in vain, several times) to administer said Calpol with the new and ominous-looking syringe (what happened to the days of the double-ended spoon?). Mummy spilt Anbesol all over herself while he wiggled and jiggled, and so smelt like a hospital for the rest of the day. Mummy felt two little teeth attack her finger every time she tried to dab said Anbesol on his gums. Mummy also felt those two little teeth chomp down on her nipples (nature's milk straws) and, upon yelping like a beaten dog, was met with an evil grin. Mummy endured endless amounts of screaming, shouting, hair pulling, neck biting (Twilight fan?) and general silent crying, where she worried that the little boy would either explode or stop breathing. Mummy also felt a bit miffed when, after all of this, the little boy would just murmur "Ahhhh-da-da-da-da."
Then, it was over. The little boy started smiling again. He remembered milk straws were for drinking and not biting like a chew toy. He giggled and laughed and still kept on with the "Da-da-da."
That night, Mummy put the little boy to bed. She fed him. Cuddled him. Kissed him. And tucked him in.
She went downstairs and said to Daddy: "Phew, he's down. I need a drink."
Mummy had a nice night with Daddy. There were lots of carbs to be had and they indulged in some banter.
Then, Mummy went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.
But then she was woken up.
Not by an alarm.
Not by a little boy.
Not even by Daddy.
Or the dog.
Mummy was teething this time.
Her jaw ached. Her gums were sore. She had a headache. Didn't much feel like eating. She didn't feel any wiser despite the wisdom tooth ripping through her gum.
So, she followed by example.
She showed the little boy where the Ibuprofen was, in hope he'd give her some. She even asked if she could borrow his Anbesol. She screamed, while lying on the floor and even had a chew of Sophie the bloody giraffe.
But the little boy?
He just laughed.
He's just lucky Daddy told Mummy not to wake him up at 3:00am, because that would apparently be "bad parenting."