I returned home from a gig the other night and everyone in the house was asleep, bar our four-year-old son, who was crying in a heartbreakingly sad way. Like all parents, I am immune to many types of crying. There is the high-pitched cry when you refuse to buy something in a shop; there is the “I’ve fallen over and you looked shocked and that made me cry” cry; and, of course, the “I’m really tired so I’m going to cry without prompting and without cessation at a level that suggests recordings of this should be used at Guantánamo” cry. Our youngest, however, was doing the heartbroken “I want you to love me” cry, and I have to confess that this particular one really gets me.

I felt devastated for the poor guy. This is a potential minefield, however. In the past, I have been guilty of returning from work with some parenting words of wisdom, ignoring the fact that my wife has been dealing with the situation for a while. The correct strategy at these times is to wind my mansplaining neck in.

I went upstairs and asked my wife what was up with him. She told me that he had, once again, got into our bed and she had put him back in his, hence the crying. I confess to having less of a problem with this than my wife, who argues that if we let it keep happening, he will carry on getting into bed with us until he is in his 30s, or something.

Our son must have detected that a weak link had entered the equation, because when he heard us talking, he came back to try his luck again. My wife went to send him back to his room, and that is when some sort of insanity took over. I said, “Why don’t we just let him stay tonight?”

This was out of order for a number of reasons. First, I had not discussed this difference of opinion with my wife. Second, I had smashed the united front of parenting to pieces, completely undermining my wife, as well as giving my son a clear message that he should push it. It was stupid of me. I had reacted because I found his crying so upsetting, completely ignoring the fact that my wife does, too, except she was continuing to do some parenting, in spite of this. Anyway, what this paragraph of self-flagellation should illustrate is I realise I cocked up.

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Our son returned to his room with some protest, and then recommenced his crying at extra volume, really hitting the sobby notes, because he had been given a clear indication by his idiot father that the industrial action was working.

This was awful now. It wasn’t fair of me not to sort it out, so I got up and went into my son’s room, and told him I would comfort him until he went to sleep. I lay down in his room, stroked his head and he stopped crying immediately. I lay with him until he fell asleep, then made my way silently back to our bedroom.

I assumed my wife had been fashioning some sort of medal or arranging a parade, but she was silent. And it was then that I realised just what I’d done: I had come home, ruined a situation, made her look like the villain, and compounded that by making myself the hero.

It really would have been better to do absolutely nothing. I’ve decided that the ideal solution in future is for our son to get into our bed, while I sleep in his for a bit.