Thursday is crazy day at our house. Thankfully my husband gets himself to work, but I need to ferry three children to their respective educational facilities within a time frame of just half an hour and high-tail it to work myself. That scant thirty minutes needs to include the preschool sign-in, kids’ school drop off, five sets of traffic lights, eight kilometers of busy main road, trying to park and arrive at work on time. Optimistically, I try to fit in grabbing a coffee on the way but, alas, something has to give. While I visualise myself strolling nonchalantly into the office with coffee in one hand and coat elegantly slung over an arm, it seems the reality for this working mother is somewhat different. I’m doing well if we’ve all got our lunches, my son has remembered to bring his gear for soccer practice and I’ve managed to scratch on some mascara while waiting at a red light.

Some things seem like a good idea at three in the morning.

In my pre-baby days, those regrettable-in-the-harsh-light-of-day incidents were the two for one tequila shots or that kebab with the lot. As a new mum I can still be found rubbing my eyes in the wee small hours but this time, instead of the tell-tale foil wrapper and pile of tabouleh, my sleep-deprived brainwave was to start thinking up nursery rhymes for how I was feeling.

Like most things that take place at 3am, much of it was well-forgotten by morning, but what I can remember has morphed into The Newborn Alphabet.