A dad's magical path to exhaustion | Steve Canavan

But even a mild-mannered man like myself is starting to get a little exasperated at how long it takes to put a three-year-old to bed.

My younger child, Wilf – who is definitely going to get the larger share of cash in my will – is no problem. You give him a bath, read him a book, then chuck – sorry, place – him in his cot and he goes to sleep. He’s a dream.

My older child, Mary, used to be like this too but at a point I can’t quite recall, things started to go awry.

Actually I can recall. It was when we took her out of her cot and put her in a normal bed.

Cots are fantastic in that they look like the bars are there for the child’s own safety and protection, when in reality they are there, of course, to imprison your infant and make sure that, like a serial killer on death row, they can’t escape.

I think one of the lowest points of parenthood is when your child learns how to climb out of its cot, often appearing in your room sometime around 3.30am with a cheery smile and the words ‘is it playtime yet?’

But back to Mary, who I used to love putting to bed. We’d read a couple of books together (those really rubbish ones where you lift a flap above an image of a stable and it reveals – lo and behold – a horse; I was always disappointed the authors didn’t spice it up by occasionally surprising you with a picture of something more interesting, like a masked man grinning and holding a bloodied chainsaw).

Then we’d sing nursery rhymes together, I’d hilariously deliberately get the words wrong – ‘Hey diddle diddle, the elephant and the trumpet - she’d laugh, we’d embrace, then I’d kiss her and leave her room.

It took 15 minutes tops, leaving me free to spend the rest of the evening doing one of my hobbies – needlework, wood carving, or naked pilates (the latter is good fun, but it’s important to shut the lounge curtains before you begin).

Now, however, things are very different.

Bedtime with Mary involves a set sequence of activities so energetic an Olympic athlete might consider using them as part of a pre-event training regime.

We start at 7pm with half an hour of playing Pirates.

The bed is the ship, the duvet cover – which she lays out on the floor – a plank, and we bounce around the room trying not to get eaten by the shark (pillow – my, how my life has changed).

Mrs C – who while her friends’ children are all already asleep can hear the loud thumping of footsteps coming from her three-year-old’s bedroom – has suggested I need to instil discipline and refuse to play these games.

But if I say no to Mary, she starts sobbing her heart out and I immediately panic and say, ‘oh, okay daring, don’t cry, of course we can play a lively stimulating game just before bedtime which will completely wake you up’.

When Pirates has run its course, we move on to The Magic Book Path, which involves placing every single book in her room (and at a conservative estimate I’d say she has about 60) on the carpet in the form of a path, which we manically run around for 20 minutes or so.

Now I’ve whipped her into an absolute frenzy we’ll have a brief session of gymnastics, then – as I’m desperately trying to edge her towards settling down – we have a party which involves one of her cuddly toys inviting all the other cuddly toys to a birthday tea.

I play the part of the host while Mary takes each cuddly toy behind her bed and rings me.

‘Hello it’s zebra here, I’ve heard there’s a party – can I come?’ and I dutifully rely ‘yes of course you can, my name’s hedgehog and I’m three today – see you shortly’.

The she’ll pretend to get in a car (I don’t know why I felt the need to write ‘pretend’ – clearly there’s not a Nissan Qashqai parked in her bedroom) and drive to my ‘house’.

She repeats this with all 35 of her cuddly toys.

When she is finally, mercifully, starting to tire, I’ll actually manage to get her in bed. I’ll read three books (desperately hoping one of her selections won’t be the damn 68-page long Encyclopedia of Animals a relative foolishly bought her) and then when I’ve tucked her in and am about to say goodnight, she’ll look at me and say, ‘daddy, I’ve got a secret’.

I lean my head towards hers and she whispers, ‘you can read me two more books’.

Inside a small part of me dies but again I’m too weak/pathetic/spineless (take your pick) to say no and so as a result the whole bedtime process takes around two hours.

My way of conducting bedtime is very different to how Mrs C does it.

She reads one story to Mary – two if she’s feeling generous and knows if she comes downstairs she’ll actually have to partake in helping me make tea – then says goodnight and leaves the room.

If Mary dares to cry or complain, Mrs C tells her to be quiet. The whole process takes 10 minutes.

Strangely – and I just can’t fathom why - Mary begs every night for me to put her to bed, and has a full-on meltdown on the rare occasions I’m out or otherwise engaged and Mrs C does it.

When Mrs C asks why she wants daddy, Mary replies ‘because I can tell him what to do’.

I either need to get better at being a parent and actually telling my child off, or I need to move house.

The second option is more likely.