But in the night she is struck with a terrible syndrome that means she must call her parents to replace the blanket every time she kicks it off her feet.
And 'toilet -trained' might be rather a strong term for a child who is not above wetting the bed twice in the night, despite having been led groggily to the toilet. (Where it has to be said Keith and I have our favourite sleepy conversations with Ivy as she recounts her dreams. Last night she said 'Shrek took my bed to sleep at his house and he left all my friends behind. That's not right, Mum.' 'No, it's not,' I agreed, but not strongly enough for Ivy. 'It's NOT RIGHT, MUM!' she shouted earnestly, holding my chin.)
Meanwhile Ted cries out once or twice every night, having confusedly wedged himself into a strange position in the bed from which he can't find his dummy or his bear.
We should perhaps not go to bed at all, but rather sleep sitting up in the corridor, armed with dummies, fresh sheets and strong coffee, poised for the next command.