A "Don't F**k With Me" look on his face

I've just spent the past 25 minutes walking the floor of my in-law's spare bedroom with an 8 kilo bag of demons clutched tightly against my chest. 

Fionn has had an eventful day, travelling West, home for the holidays, and his regular sleep pattern has been disturbed. You just try and put me to bed Dad. Hands-on at the best of times, this evening's nap has quickly escalated into a battle of wills. Enraged with tiredness and a deep sense of injustice, my only tactic is to hold him close, using shush-pat and soothing words to try and get him to relax enough for sleep to take over.

As I pace, sweating, back and neck beginning to spasm, I think back on all the times I've been driven close to the edge by him - all the times he refused to sleep, refused to stop crying, all the times I came close to giving voice to every parent's dark secret: sometimes, just sometimes, you could almost convince yourself that you hate your child, that you are the victim here, that they are being so unreasonable...

I keep pacing, and before too long he let's go and drifts off. It's the very least I owe him. Goodnight Fionn.