Somebody Wants Me To Die.

379 nights.

379 nights.

379 nights of never getting to that stage of special sleep where the good stuff happens.

379 nights of ALMOST getting to that special stage of sleep before being wrenched back to awake-ness like a piece of Voldemorts soul being summoned back to hell by a dessimated Horcrux.

379 mornings of looking like I am suffering from a special kind of death plague.

379 mornings of feeling like my eyelids are made from heavy duty sandpaper.

379 mornings of wondering if today is the day I will die of tiredness.

1 night of a baby that slept the whole night. The same night that I woke up every 2 hours wondering why The Baby had not woken up and paved the familiar pathway to the nursery to do The Official Breathing Check. Then a follow-up wee.

379 nights before THE night. The night when I would finally get an uninterrupted, whole night of sleep. The night when we, The Man and I, would leave behind our precious bundle of insomniac joy and travel to London to eat food slowly, watch a musical concert not composed by Toddlers TV and then… the big one… sleep in a hotel room without a baby or baby monitor present. Sleep for a WHOLE NIGHT. Not get out of the bed at all. Until morning. Or the bloody afternoon if I wanted.

No words or phrases present in the English (or any) language can convey the desperation I felt for this nights sleep. This night was the sole reason I had not turned to illegal hard drugs in the past month to ensure my capacity to function as a human being could continue.

I daren’t believe it would actually happen. Something would inevitably go wrong. The Baby would get sick…. I would get sick…. The Man would get sick… The Baby Watchers would pull out… or get sick…. London would close…. The Car would die… I just daren’t believe.

None of the above happened.

What DID happen was this:

• ·      Ate food slowly.
• ·      Watched a musical concert not composed by Toddlers TV.
• ·      Went back to hotel room.
• ·      Did preparatory sleep wee.
• ·      Got in bed.
• ·      Watched TV for 10 minutes.
• ·      Turned TV off after 10 minutes because of overwhelming sleep excitement.
• ·      Snuggled down ready. READY FOR THE SLEEP OF ALL SLEEPS.
• ·      Noticed loudness of external noise.
• ·      Ignored loudness of external noise. London is noisy.
• ·      Started to drift…..
• ·      …… Undrifted due to loudness of external noise.
• ·      Started to drift……..
• ·      **HORRIFIC LOUD METAL SMASHING NOISE**
• ·      Mumbled conversational interlude with Man about potential source.
• ·      Started to drift……
• ·      …. Undrifted due to heavy machinery type noise.
• ·      **HORRIFIC LOUD METAL SMASHING NOISE**
• ·      Angry growl and accompanying turn-over.
• ·      Started to drift…..
• ·      ….. Oooooo lovely drifting….
• ·      **HORRIFIC LOUD METAL SMASHING NOISE**
• ·      Jump out of my skin.
• ·      ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT’
• ‘I don’t know, but it’s fucking annoying’
• ‘Is the balcony door open? It sounds open.’
• ‘No, but I think it’s single glazed so it’s quite noisy’

SIGH

• ·      Started to drift……
• ·      **HORRIFIC LOUD METAL SMASHING NOISE**
• ·      Man is out of bed.
• ·      Man is standing at balcony door.
• ·      ‘It’s a building site. They are actually still working on a building site.’

Let me break this down for you.

Right outside our window (and down a bit, as we were on the 10^th floor), was a building site.

Upon this building site, were approximately 8 builders in luminous jackets.

1 of said builders was driving a digger.

This is what he was doing with the digger:

1.  Drive digger to pile of large metal sheets.

2. Pick up one of the metal sheets with the metal digger section of the digger. (Accompanied by metal screeching noise)

  3. Turn digger and drive approximately 200 metres to a hole in the ground.

4. Drop giant heavy metal sheet from a significant height onto the concrete ground to cover up hole.

5. Repeat.

And when I say repeat…. If I were to make it slightly clearer, I would say that the above 5 steps continued to happen until 2.30am.

TWO THIRTY AM.

That wasn’t the kind of noise you could just IGNORE or PUT TO THE BACK OF YOUR MIND. This was the kind of noise that made me feel like I was attempting sleep in the building site itself. In the digger. This was the kind of noise that made me feel like I was employed by that building company myself and I too was donned in a luminous jacket at 2.30am covering up a giant fucking hole using giant metal sheets.

The anger didn’t come at first.

The Man and I we stood. For a substantial amount of time. At the balcony door. The Man in his special sleeping pants. Me in my special sleeping pants and vest top. Staring. In complete silence.

Because you see… there really weren’t any words. Of course. Of COURSE these men were outside the window or OUR apartment, on THIS night and of COURSE they had to cover this hole until 2.30am. Everyone knows you can’t cover holes during the day. That would just be wrong. Has to be done at 2am.

I stared at the luminous jacket men with a kind of hatred that scared me. Then I cried. Actual tears. As I realized that I would not feel refreshed in the morning, as I had been dreaming about for the past 379 days. I was once again awake in the middle of the night, unable to do anything about it (I wasn’t sure that offering the builders milk from my breast would have the desired effect) and was once again going to have to spend the next day searching for caffeine and trying not to fall asleep on the toilet whilst doing a wee.

It was at this point something became very clear to me… I felt like I had had an epiphany:

Somebody wants me to die.

It was absolutely unquestionable. And thus I proclaimed this to The Man through my tears. And he…. Well practiced in my over-dramatics… merely nodded his head in accompanying despair and sighed. Perhaps you are thinking that this is over dramatic. If you have or have had a non-sleeping baby, you will not be thinking this at all.  You will know. If you have not had a non-sleeping baby… get back to me when you haven’t slept properly for 379 nights.

So we finally got to sleep at 3am.

And on the bright side, we did get to sleep until 8.40am… so I felt less like I had a deathly plague and more like I was just suffering from a slight dust allergy.

Oh well. Maybe in another 379 days we will get another chance. You know…. If we’re still alive.

3 Short Stories. One Giant Booger.

Practice Doesn’t Make Perfect

Sometimes I genuinely think I’ve cracked it, this looking after a baby lark. We’re napping, we’re eating food, we’re doing activities, we’re smiling, we’re only waking up once a night, we’re able to butter toast with one hand, we’ve actually consumed a hot cup of tea within the last 4 days.

You’ve got to be careful though. You can’t go around flaunting this mindset. You can’t tell anyone. You can’t casually mention it to your partner. You can’t even let the thought pass across your mind. Because IF YOU DO…. The Lord of the Babies will know. He will sense even the smallest trace of smugness and he will immediately re-program your baby to Fuck-Up-Mode. This is a Baby Mode designed to take you down a few pegs. To remind you that you are not in control... There is no order here… no pattern… no regularity. (3 of my favourite things… by the way)

The thing is... I’m not expecting a robot baby that conforms to very specific times, no. I would just like SOME sort of consistency. Because currently it would seem that The Baby works in a similar way to the random number generator one would find on a scientific calculator.

Although SOMETIMES I don’t think it’s random at all. I think it’s actually a very particular pattern. I like to call it the ‘Behave-So-That-All-Planned-Activities-Are-Fucked-Up’ pattern. This kind of pattern takes time, dedication and effort from The Baby. It starts days… weeks even.. in advance. The Baby PRETENDS she’s actually in some kind of pattern or… dare I say it… routine. Almost to the point of being able to rely on it. Then you get cocky. You make a commitment based upon this new ‘routine’. For example… maybe you sign up to a term of baby group at a specific time, or make a series of plans based on these times during the following week. . Then… similar to the way it absolutely pisses it down the one day you’ve planned a BBQ in the Summer… The Baby brings out the big guns:

• ·      Baby initiates some form of highly disruptive developmental phase e.g. teething.
• ·      Baby shifts naps to a start time that coincides with every single plan you have made.
• ·      If nap is postponed in an attempt to continue with such plans, Baby behaves like a deranged extra from Planet Of The Apes.
• ·      Things that previously promoted sleepiness now promote hyperactivity and overstimulation.

Emergency Response: Retreat to living room. Eat cake. Give Baby the Calpol Delivery Tube to chew.

Good job she’s bloody cute.

 

Calpol Delivery Tube

Wanted: Construction Specialist.

A HUMAN BEING COMES OUT OF YOUR VAGINA.

Just actually really mull that over for a minute. Think it through. You are a human. And then another human… that wasn’t there before… comes out of you.

This is a shock.

Then you have to look after that human – a unique, unpredictable, complex machine, with no instructions.

For the first few days, you have quite close contact with midwives, so you can ask questions to your hearts content and know that if you have a question, you don’t have to wait long for a potential answer. But then that slowly withdraws. Until eventually…. You mostly only have you. Shit.

Trust your instinct, they say. Listen to your gut. I listen. It just so happens that I also listen to Margaret from Baby Group. And Moira from the Other Baby Group. And the random parent in the doctors waiting room. And sometimes their voices are louder than my gut. So off I go to Baby Group, feeling confident about the skill repertoire of The Baby relating to her age. And then I hear Margaret talking about how her baby of the same age can stack things. And that Margaret read that it’s about this age that they should be able to stack things. But it’s cool… I’m cool about it…. The Man has taught me about these situations.. he says I don’t need to worry about what other babies are doing and that I worry too much. And it’s fine… I’m absolutely cool about it. So what if Mini Margaret is a fucking construction specialist at the age of 9 months. MY baby can saturate a dribble bib in under 12 minutes. And I store my Mini Margaret Stacking Fact in my bottle of Inner Worry that should never come out.

This lasts about until approximately 30 seconds after The Man has walked through the door.

Then the conversation goes like this:

Me: How was your day?

Man: Yeah it was alright thanks.

Me: The Baby can’t stack anything.

Man: What?

Me: Stacking!! She should be able to stack things and she has never done that. Do you think there is something wrong?

Man: What?

Me: STACKING!!!!! She should be able to stack objects and she hasn’t even VAGUELY ever tried to stack anything!

Man: Oh love…

I try to show The Baby the procedure of stacking, but she looks at me like I’m crazy and then goes back to chewing on the Calpol Delivery Tube.

The thing is, I KNOW that she will learn to stack things eventually, at her own pace, because every baby is different… blah blah blah. And I know that it doesn’t mean there is something wrong with her… like Stacking Deficiency Syndrome or Stackaemia. But it’s HARD to fight your way through the Parent Inferno… constantly inundated with advice, opinion, fact, fiction, stories, anecdotes… and to not apply it to your own child in any way.

Sometimes I wonder how The Man is so cool about everything.

2 days pass.

I walk in on The Man secretly trying to teach The Baby to stack.

So it turns out I’m not alone after all.... Ha.

When I Went To The Giant Next.

Today The Baby has a bogey stuck to her head. Literally stuck. At some point.. despite being unable to complete any tasks requiring fine motor skills, The Baby has smeared a bogey across her forehead, then fallen asleep on it, allowing it plentiful time to crust over, solidify and it would seem, grow and implant roots to attach itself surgically to her head.

I cannot get it off. I have scraped, soaked, rubbed. That little booger is there for good.

Anyway. Went on a trip to the New Giant Next.

It was incredible.

Not in a good way.

I’ve never been a Next fan really. Don’t get it. Particularly don’t get queuing at 5am on Boxing Day. Have these people not heard of staying in bed, eating leftover Christmas Dinner and chocolate for breakfast and watching The Snowman? Each to their own I suppose. But for baby items, it’s quite useful. And we needed baby socks. And baby shoes. Too many people have now commented on my child’s bare feet in the cooling temperatures. Strangers included. Even I am questioning the Health & Safety part of my mothering qualifications. Don’t even have one of those buggy footmuffs. The concept of paying £95 for one makes me want to rock backwards and forwards gently in a corner.

Plus I literally cannot face the death defying torture lift in the city centre Next (seriously… PUT THE BABY STUFF ON THE GROUND FLOOR), so I didn’t really have a choice but to go to this ridiculously huge complex that incorporates a Costa. To be fair… it’s quite a challenge to find an establishment that doesn’t incorporate a Costa these days. (Now there’s a good activity for the next day with nothing to do)

It is huge. As in.. had-to-change-the-road-layout-surrounding-it huge. Personally, I would have preferred to see a building of such size used as a Peanut Butter-Related-Food Outlet. But hey… what do I know.

Let’s break this down.

• ·      It was raining. Hard.
• ·      Upon arrival realized I had forgotten to put buggy in boot.
• ·      Luckily had sling.
• ·      Dropped sling in puddle.
• ·      Had to affix sling to my white top, which stained it.
• ·      Placed baby in sling.
• ·      Baby vomited orange Organix carrot stick sick down the top.
• ·      Still standing in the car park. Still raining.
• ·      Despite ridiculously enormous size of store, did not have the size shoe I needed in all except one type of shoe.
• ·      Swore a lot about how ‘f***king ridiculous’ that was.
• ·      Stood in queue for a very long time with only 2 people serving. Literally everyone in front of me had a very complex issue that required at least two members of staff to sort out. Swore some more.
• ·      Finally reached payment station. Asked if I got everything I wanted. Laughed.
• ·      Considered going to Costa, but realized that I would have to reveal my patchwork stain top to members of the public and this would not be acceptable.
• ·      Ran back to car (still raining)
• ·      Loaded Baby into car seat.
• ·      Got in drivers seat.
• ·      Realised I didn’t have my wallet. Shit.
• ·      Unload Baby.
• ·      Don’t bother with sling and run with Baby freestyle across car park.
• ·      Stand in queue with still only 2 people serving.
• ·      Approach payment station. 2 members of staff required to deal with my query.
• ·      Don’t have my purse.
• ·      ShitShitShit.
• ·      Retreat back to car.
• ·      Load Baby into car seat.
• ·      Realise I put it in the bag with the shoes I didn’t like or want.
• ·      Depart ridiculously oversized car park.

Upon arriving home, I was in the process of evacuating The Baby from the vehicle in the pouring rain with one hand (phone, purse and unwanted shoes in the other) when The Cat sauntered across the road and got in the car. GOT. IN. THE. CAR. The Cat has never got in the car before. Ever. So I’m now standing in the pouring rain, baby getting soaked, with no socks on and The Cat is in the footwell of the back seat of the car.  

I am soaked.

The Baby is soaked.

The Cat is bone dry sitting in the footwell that I can’t reach.

The booger is still there.

Sigh.

What I Did In The Holidays…

With The Man being off work for 6 glorious weeks, not only have I been able to pee alone and freely, but I have also felt compelled to try out more baby-related activities.

The Big Scream – Cinema City

SUMMARY: If you have a baby under 1, you can go to the cinema and see the current adult films and it doesn’t matter if your baby screams, shits, rubs rice cakes into the seats etc., because everyone in the room understands and is experiencing similar issues. You also get free tea, coffee and biscuits. DREAM.

What a bloody glorious idea. I love movies. The Man loves movies. We miss movies. Any movie we have watched in the last 8 months has been in no fewer than 7 parts, interspersed with trying to get The Baby to sleep, trying to get The Baby back to sleep, trying to keep ourselves awake during the film and trying to remember what happened in the last 6 parts, then just giving up. This is sad, because we used to LOVE movies.

Then I produced The Baby…. Who for this section will be referred to as The Foghorn. She is RIDICULOUSLY loud. She doesn’t really even cry that much… she is just LOUD.  She shouts at animate objects, inanimate objects, empty space, random old ladies, walls. Whilst doing so, she gesticulates wildly with her hands or pumps them in the air as though she is at an illegal rave.  It is not necessarily a short-lived shout either…. She can go for hours. Because of The Foghorn… I have been genuinely anxious about going to The Big Scream. Even though the whole idea is centred around not having to worry about the noise… The Foghorn truly does take it to the next level.

With The Man off work and Mission Impossible being shown.. we thought ‘fuck it’; packed up The Foghorn, some rice cakes and Boris Bear and gaily looked forward to actually being together in a cinema once again.

In short, this is what happened:

• ·      The Foghorn decided that she wanted to have a proper nap in her cot (AKA more than 30 minutes) on the day (specifically just before the film), because she could sense we were excited and wanted to screw it up by doing the thing we’ve been trying to get her to do for 8 months.
• ·      Arrived late.
• ·      Bought 2 mini Gnaw chocolate bars (Peanut Butter and Salted Caramel). JOY.
• ·      The Man maneuvered The Foghorn, The Chariot and himself up to the screen whilst I acquired 1x free Tea, 1x free Coffee, 1 x free Malted Milk (YES!) and 1 x free Bourbon (YES!)
• ·      Plenty of free seats and you could sit where you liked.
• ·      Lots of baby-related noise (Thank god)
• ·      Set up camp on a whole free row of seats.
• ·      The Foghorn completely enamoured with giant screen, colours and noises.
• ·      The Foghorn stood on our laps bouncing her bum on our chests with excitement, holding her arms up in the air in celebration for 90% of the film.
• ·      The Foghorn had a 30 minute nap in the sling. Next to a speaker while there was a really loud motorbike chase.
• ·      Despite watching the film through The Foghorn’s head and missing quite a crucial plot point so I wasn’t 100% sure who certain people were for most of the film… we watched a WHOLE film.
• ·      At one point, we even got to hold hands for a minute.
• ·      Another baby scream-cried through the whole thing, whereas The Foghorn only went off 3 times. Smug.
• ·      Loved it.

BlocTots – Highball Climbing Centre

SUMMARY: My brother, who wishes to be known as Terry Powerballs (a lean, climbing machine with tiny nipples who is single and ready to mingle) works at this pretty super climbing centre. During normal hours, it is full to the brim of lean climbing-types performing acrobatic feats to get to the top of multiple walls. Once a week they open their doors to babies and toddlers to enjoy a mini version of such activities, along with some baby staples such as tunnels, squidgy mats and wooden cars. There are also ridiculously good cakes and coffees. Plus it only costs £1. Epic.

Why sit on the floor of your own living room watching your baby chew stuff, when you can do it in a climbing warehouse whilst eating moist brownies? I also think it is character building for The Foghorn to have to fend off over-enthusiastic toddlers for an hour. Of course at the ripe old age of 8 months, The Foghorn can’t climb the mini climbing wall, but she tends to be quite happy sitting on a mat eating a wooden block, so I just go with it.

It is also a pleasant opportunity for Terry Powerballs to spend time with his niece. Historically an avid hater of babies, since acquiring one in his own bloodline, he has taken well to the role of Uncle. Unfortunately, this has brought with it a relatively aggressive and protective set of behaviours. These have included:

• ·      Shouting swear words at passing cars for driving too fast or too close to the pavement when pushing the pram.
• ·      Shouting ‘MIND MY BABY’ at innocent pedestrians if they walk too close to the pram. Or just happen to be near the pram. Or are not near the pram at all.
• ·      Openly criticizing the looks, behaviours, parents of other babies or small children. At times, to their faces.
• ·      Telling passing parents that ‘my baby is better than your baby’ whilst walking down the street with the pram.
• ·      Almost fronting up to any toddlers that come near the Foghorn whilst at the baby climbing group.

Despite this, he can display an excellent array of strange noises that keep The Foghorn amused for hours and doesn’t seem to mind the inordinate amount of drool that she deposits on him, whilst simultaneously and relentlessly pulling his glasses off his face.

Whilst this is all occurring, I can focus my attention fully on the moist brownie. What a morning.

Going to Quiet Country Pub Lunch with Important Work Colleagues

SUMMARY: Get over confident and smug with 2 x available parents to look after Foghorn. Decide it is an excellent idea and completely achievable to enjoy a calm pub lunch at v. middle class pub with important work colleagues.

Despite the 40 minute drive, providing 40 minutes worth of opportunity to nap prior to the event, Foghorn stayed awake for the first 39 minutes, then dozed off 1 minute prior to arrival at the pub. So The Man and said work colleagues sat in the glorious sun enjoying a beer. Meanwhile, I sat in the hot car, staring at a bush, awaiting nap completion. Luckily, my Squeezy app went off, so I was lucky enough to also enjoy some pelvic floor exercises.

Upon nap completion, Foghorn was in the worst mood ever. Threw smoked salmon from the middle class pub on the floor. Ate a leaf.

Good.