Did you ever get one of those nights?

Wednesday nights are kind of precious to me. I like to get in (around 6pm usually), have a little time with the kids, having something to eat and settle down at 8pm to ogle at Mr Schuster in Glee on TV3.
What more could a girl want?

Last night though - well that was a bit different.
I got home at six and the husband had not done any housework during the day. Now I don't expect him to be Mrs Mop, but he works from home and it wouldn't have hurt to run the dishes under the tap or give the floors a quick hoover.
I went into what is commonly known as "sreaming harpee mode". The baby who never sleeps was cranky and sick. The boy was hyper. The husband was sat at his desk - a circle of papers strewn around him as if a branch of Eason had exploded on his chair. I had homework to do. I had a baby to soothe. There was washing to be hung and beds to be made, packed lunches to be prepared and after that I wanted to eat something.
Day three on Weight Watchers and while I'm coping, I find that by meal times I am ravenous to the point of wanting to faint from hunger.
I washed up, brushed the floors, cuddled the baby, made the beds, did the boy's homework with him, hung out the washing and put some new potatoes onto steam.
The husband, who was due to go out, then put the baby to bed and headed on his way as I shoved the hastily prepared repast down my throat.
The baby did not go to sleep. The baby was awake. The baby needed Calpol. So I gave her it - but she still randomly cried screamed for half an hour on and off until she decided she just wanted to play.
It was 8.15pm. Glee had started. Was I was ogling Mr Schuster? No. I was changing the baby's jammies as she had drooled all over them with the damn persistant teething that never stops.
Eventually, at 8.45pm, she went to sleep. I came down stairs and washed up again (the dishes dirty themselves in my house, I swear) and was just sitting down in front of the TV  (after doing the bedtime routine with the boy) when the baby woke again. And screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
The boy woke. I had a headache. I gave her Nurofen.
She went back to sleep.
For five minutes.
Then she woke again, and screamed, and screamed and screamed.
And thus was the pattern all night.
The husband decided to sleep in beside the boy while I nursed the baby in our bed. At 4.15am, aware that I had a 9 hour day ahead of me in work I demanded the right to at least three hours sleep.
The boy came into the bed beside me. The baby was nursed by her daddy who then proceeded to put her in Joseph's bed with him.
The bed broke.
Like properly collapsed.
It is a new bed.
It is obviously a crap bed.
A quick inspection, beneath sleepy eyelids revealed it had been held together by the smallest of pins and the flimsiest of balsa wood. I had thought this would be sufficient for a six year old - but I guess not.
The baby was plonked on top of me, where she screamed and screamed and screamed and the boy woke up.
Eventually the husband proved his worth and took the baby downstairs while I tried my best to get the boy back to sleep and managed a full two hours uninterrupted sleep.
It is entirely possible that today I may fall asleep at my desk.