At stupid o’ clock this morning, the grey light of dawn only just creeping round the curtains, my human alarm clocks dragged me from some rather enjoyable early-morning dreams.

If just one boy appears, there’s a chance he’ll go back to sleep. But when you hear the pitter patter of two sets of feet running across the marble floor, it’s usually game over and a full 17 hours before you get another go at the whole getting a good night’s sleep thing.

So, at 5.40am – a weekend, of course – I was resigned to a day of muddling along in a tired, fuzzy-brained state, nothing unusual in that. Then something really astonishing happened.

Suddenly, it was 8.45am. The house was quiet. The boys not in bed, but not making a peep. They’d vanished – and I’d slept through the whole thing!

I found them downstairs, glued to the TV watching cartoons in Arabic (learning something, perhaps?)

They’d let me go back to sleep – a first! And there were clues everywhere that they’d looked after themselves.

The puddle of milk. Chairs dragged across the room so they could climb up to get snacks from out-of-reach cupboards. The kitchen scissors on the floor, used to open packets of M&Ms. Biscuit crumbs everywhere.

Why, next weekend they might even pack their own lunch boxes and head off to joy ride the Metro all day.

It’s another definite sign – along with ditching the toddler car seat, breezing out the house without the stroller and our semi-successful interventions to cut down on whining – that they’re growing up and life’s getting a bit easier.

Bitter-sweet? Maybe. But, mostly, utterly wonderful (I do love my sleep), even if I pay for it this afternoon when their early start leads to crabbiness in spades.