I know I’ve talked about angels in the past. But now I want to turn your attention toward the devil.

I’ve concluded that children are both.

Angelic in their simple purity. Their openness of gaze. Their delightful fits of giggles.

Devilish in the unbridled fury released in their tantrums. The all encompassing self-centeredness. And their uncanny ability to get you to do exactly what you they want.

For instance, B has managed to get me to drag my sorry arse out of bed at SIX IN THE MORNING FOR A WEEK STRAIGHT.

I know. Sob, sob. Moan, moan.  There are plenty of mums who are forced up even earlier, without complaint. But I am not, nor have ever been, a morning person.  And what’s life without a bit of complaining, eh? Though I’m not proud of my natural sloth-like ways, and though I do manage to appreciate being up in the City at the crack  – the glimmer of pink sun rising between brick and cement – forcing myself to wake up at 6am is akin to prying out each and every one of my fingernails.

B was a late sleeper until last week. What in the hell happened?? All attempts to prevent the squeal from her crib from turning into continual screams, ie.by furious and repeated attempts to quiet her with pacifier in her mouth, fail. Taking her into our bed does no good either. She continues to wail – Aries personality emerging stronger by the second – until she gets her way. “Up, up!!!” she demands.

So my poor husband or I are forced UP. Grabbing our little diva tightly, one of us takes her upstairs, whereupon she is instant smiles, playing contentedly on the floor while we shrivel up on the sofa, coffee cup in our flaccid grip. We inwardly protest, but can’t help smiling adoringly as she wiggles to the music that hellish Fisher Price cuddly toy is blaring.

I’m telling you, it’s the devil’s work.