So I’m sat in the living room, listening as my sons holler and yell after an hour of being in bed, and I feel the anger swell inside me. They should have been asleep long before now, and I’m trying to watch TV, and goshdarnit this is MY time and you’re laughing all over it.

Pulling my biggest strop face, I stomp up the stairs and enter their bedroom to find water everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All up the windows, the walls, all over the bedsheets. It looks like there’s been some kind of mass murder, if the victims were bottles of Evian.

Man, I’m mad. Shaking, like a terrified hamster. I inhale deeply, ready to spew a volcano of parenting anger into the air. I’m boiling, and my boys are going to get scolded.

And then I look at my son. And he looks like this.

Suddenly, it’s like someone has emptied a fire extinguisher on my rage. A rage extinguisher. And I find myself beginning to smirk.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still angry. Really angry. But look at his face. He doesn’t even give a flying flip that he’s just emptied his water all over the bedroom. My feet squelch on the carpet as I turn away, sniggering into my shoulder. Noah clocks on, as does Isaac, and before I know it all three of us are laughing and I’m still trying to tell them off. It’s like a clown trying to yell at kids. No, wait, that’s not funny. That’s creepy. But you know what I mean, because it’s happened to you. It’s the Giggle Tsunami, and eventually it happens to us all.