Night time interlopers

I climb the ladder to say my goodnights to my youngest child. Each has their own particular ritual, of no real significance as such, but developed and morphed over the years to meet a lengthy list of preferential treatment. Each version is private. Each version is whispered. No-one ever hears the entire details that another enjoys. “Ti voglio bene” I coo as my opening attention grabbing phrase, in the gloom to a mop of chlorine soaked hair. It’s my only Italian phrase, culled from a lullaby several light years ago.
“Huh!”
“Ti voglio bene……”
I am unused to repeating my opening gambit more than three times, but I suspect that our respective response times are dulled by jetlag.
“Huh!”
“Ti voglio bene.”
“You………are you mother?”
“Oh dear!”
“You are speak foreign?”
“What are you doing up here in the top bunk? Why aren’t you down there in the bottom bunk?”