So, in nose-blowing terms (see previous post), The G leads The B 1-0.
In the recovering-of-lost-duvets-in-the-dead-of-night stakes, The B is ahead, making the scores level I guess, 1-1 on aggregate, a dead heat.
The G is terrible at this, it's true.
Should she become uncovered and cold in the night, there's just one thing for it: call for urgent assistance.
Therefore, at 1am, 4.30am and, more often than not, 6am, either The W or myself is summoned, to The G's bedroom, to recover said bedding and move it the couple of inches or so that is required to ensure that The G, disgruntled and half-asleep, is once again under cover and able to resume interrupted dreams.
You like to think that the disturbed nights can be consigned to the past once the initial stages of babyhood have passed. But no.
Until errant quilts can be recovered and rearranged sans parent, forget about it.
To be fair, at The G's current age, The B needed regular assistance on this front and he got there.
She'll get there too.
Soon, I hope.
It seems worse at the minute because The G has taken to rising earlier than anyone else in the house.
From 6.10am onwards, she is apt to appear, bright, breezy, full of noise, raring to go.
Until this month, she'd remain in bed, waiting for someone to come and get her, singing songs until the appropriate hour.
These days, upon waking, she's up and out: full-speed-ahead, crashing across the landing, chattering non-stop already, en route to our bedroom.
Sometimes, the approaching noise serves as an early-warning system. The other morning, though, she managed to get all the way without waking us, the first we knew about her impending arrival coming when the bedroom door, pushed a little too enthusiastically, crashed hard into the bedside table, giving us all a pre-dawn fright.
Not a good start to the morning.
It's less than a fortnight ago that we were complaining about The B's penchant for getting up at 7am on the dot.
Those were the days.