When I came across the term ‘revenge bedtime procrastination’ for the first time, it was a lightbulb moment.

I finally had a name for the thing I do every night. If it had a name, that meant other people must do it too. And when you can name it, you can tackle it.

Or so I thought.

Most mornings, my alarm goes off at 5.25. Aiming for the magical 8 hours every wellbeing and productivity expert suggests, that means I should be asleep at 9.25pm. Which - spoiler alert - I am not. Ever.

On the rare occasion that my kids are actually tucked in by this time (don’t get me started), the revenge procrastination starts. First I clean the kitchen. Even if the dishes have been done already, I get an irrepressible urge to scrub the sink with bicarb, clean out the microwave, wipe the cupboard doors. And then there’s the debris scattered from the front door to the back door – as I collect stray lego bits and picture books, I feel like I’m putting pieces of my brain back together. With all the things off the floor it strikes me that maybe the arrangement of our houseplants could be tweaked, and as I’m twisting pots in their saucers I realise the leaves need a dust, so I fill a spray bottle with water and start tending to them. This goes on until I realise it’s 11pm and if I don’t sleep now I’ll be exhausted tomorrow. So I fall into bed, where I scroll mindlessly to unwind from all the unwinding I’ve been doing. 11.30pm. You can see where this is going.

Whoever coined the term revenge bedtime procrastination didn’t make clear who exactly the revenge was upon, but the only victim I can identify is my 5.25am self, startled out of REM sleep and thrust begrudgingly into my activewear.

So where did this phenomenon emerge? It’s a rough translation of a Chinese term, ‘bàofùxìng áoyè, which exploded on Twitter in mid-2020. “People who don’t have much control over their daytime life refuse to sleep early in order to regain some sense of freedom during late night hours”, one user commented. And although my work schedule is a far cry from the relentless 966 schedule that may have inspired the term, the reality of juggling a full-time job with two young children is that yes, my sense of freedom is currently minimal. Someone, or something, always needs me. Emails need answering. Snacks need making. To-do lists need ticking off. Washing needs doing. Phone calls need answering. A lot of the time, someone needs a cuddle (not me).

Mothers with babies often report feeling ‘touched out’ by the end of the day, particularly if they are breastfeeding. As someone who needs solitude and silence to fully recharge, I found the tactile side of parenting surprisingly overstimulating – having another person physically on you for most of the day treads a line between delicious and dehumanising. And so when 10pm rolls around and my body finally belongs to me again, I want to enjoy it.

The cleaning feels like a defragmentation. There are no deadlines, no ‘you should really be doing this other pressing thing’ thoughts in my head, no tiny bystanders tugging on my hem or asking why my hair looks weird (savage).

The Sleep Foundation reports that “surveys have found that working from home has often extended working hours, and women, in particular, have had a reduction in normal leisure time since the pandemic started.”

Household chores hardly count as leisure time, but with a podcast in one ear and the right to remain silent for the first time since 6am, they kind of feel like it. Do not disturb. I’m exacting my revenge.