No, it wasn't usual suspect number one, performing acrobatic stunts thanks to my ever shrinking, ever elastic trampoline of a bladder. Nor was it culprit two, needing cuddling from a nightmare. It was the rare, fur-covered third child.
I heard his desparate whines coming from downstairs, as he will NOT venture up to save his soul. Going upstairs means bath, and bath is the darkest evil known to canines. So he stood at the bottom landing, whimpering, legs crossed and dancing at the same time.
Once I realized it was Elvis who needed the mid night attention, I shot out of bed, not wanting to relive the putrid penalty of not answering nature's call, as I had in the past. I descended the stairs to the delight of my poo-filled pooch, and stumbled to the back door to let him out. I'm glad we've potty trained our dog, lets just hope the babies will be as easy.