Sleep Deprived | Sleep is for the Weak

Yo Mama

Posted by Josie on Sep 30, 2009 in Uncategorized | 25 comments

200301647-001 Well you can’t knock Kai for his ability to keep me on my toes.

The night before last he broke all records sleeping the longest stretch of his ENTIRE LIFE!!! A whole six and half hours all in a row. And after he’d woken up, guzzled down his usual few gallons of milk and gone back to sleep he only woke up a further ONCE!!!!!!!

I’m not sure you’ve grasped the significance of this.

He woke up TWICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And yes, the exclamation marks totally justified. And YES I’m going to shout a lot in this post and DON’T CARE.

Because not only did he only wake up twice, he didn’t want to get up till 7am… AND… spent the whole night in his cot in his OWN ROOM.

Perhaps you’re wondering (like I did) whether someone secretly swapped out my genetically flawed Hyper-No-Sleep 5000 baby with a regular, normal, standard issue one.

But no, it was really Kai.

Do you know how I know?

Because of LAST night. Last night, after jubilantly celebrating all day that ‘This was IT baby!’ and that we’d really turned a corner, phoning all my friends and relatives and stopping random people in the street to grab them by their lapels and look with crazy frenzy into their frightened eyes and squeal “SIX AND A HALF HOURS!!”

Last night when I sauntered off to bed safe in the knowledge that I most likely had at least three hours before being woken up, and probably another three or four hour stretch after that.

Last night when Kai was awake all fricking night.

So no. Doesn’t look like that was IT baby. Looks like that was just a horrible cruel fluke.Quite possibly because Kai nearly knocked himself out on the skirting board that day and I had two rather large glasses of wine. Yep, nothing like a mild concussion and alcohol laced breast milk to guarantee some sleep.

And of course because I’d been treated to night of half-decent sleep the night before, a night of virtually no sleep hit me extra hard. And I was so tired this morning that… well… I’ll tell you how tired I was. EXACTLY how tired.

Because I’m starting a new thing. It’s called ‘This Mama so tired’.

It’s kinda like ‘Yo Mama so fat’ except better. And less horribly offensive. (And yes I know it’s not grammatically correct but it’s hip, innit?)

So here’s mine – then you have to give me yours:

This Mama so tired that… she realised that she’d thrown her dirty underwear in the toilet rather than in the laundry basket

This Mama so tired that… when writing a birthday card for one of Kai’s buddy’s she wrote

To Kai, Happy Birthday Love Kai x

This Mama so tired that… she can’t SEE!

I’m not kidding! I seriously thought I might be going blind. I booked an appointment at the opticians and prepared myself for the worst but turns out my eye sight in test is fine (phew!). Well, no worse than it’s ever been – I still have a slightly lazy eye. Apparently I’m just so exhausted that even the muscles in my eyes are tired! Thus giving me rather screwy vision, especially in bright light. The lovely leather elbow-patch cladded Optician prescribed me a decent pair of sunglasses and some sleep. He even may have used the word ‘dear’ and patted my arm.

THAT’S how tired I am.

So how tired are you Mama?

P.S. I’m know I’m being horrible and excluding Dads here but Yo Pappa doesn’t really sound right does it? Men folk – if you can pull it off or think of a Dad equivalent then by all means do so…

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Introducing: The Baby Show 2060

Posted by Josie on Sep 17, 2009 in Uncategorized | 10 comments

stewie_griffin It was a rather long night last night. Not quite a talking bread people kinda night but not far off.

And as I lay, trying to block out the whining and sniffing of the giant baby draped across my chest feeling very sorry for himself, having given up trying to put him back in the completely useless cot for the millionth time, I ended up thinking back to that post about baby gadgets and all the crap cluttering up our attic.

And I wondered… what gadgets do you reckon Kai’s children’s children will be ordering from their Mothercare catalogues in preparation for their first borns?

Side note: I’ll still be alive obviously and irritating the hell out of all my children by refusing to die. Holed up in some cottage somewhere surrounded by cats and writing steamy vampire erotic literature (because that’s all that will sell in the future).

Anyway…

Future baby gadgets. Here are my top 5 Baby Show 2060 contenders:

1. The ‘Operation’ Style Baby Monitor

You know that game right? Operation? With the man with the flashing nose and the elastic band in his leg that always got lost? Well since we already have camera monitors and movement monitors I reckon it’s only a matter of time before all homes mount an electronic representation of their baby on the wall that will alert them to said baby’s every need and complaint. Hungry? The tummy will flash. Cold? Skin will light up blue. Colic? Wailing siren and emergency lock-down procedure will initiate, sealing all doors and windows with cry-proof barriers to protect the neighbours (and stop us running screaming into the street) and deploying medicinal gin (for the parents, natch).

2. The Zero-Gravity Baby-Gro

Thus causing contained baby to become weightless enabling more comfortable all-night pacing. (Did I mention that Kai has just been weighed in at a whopping 26 and a half lb?!)

3. The Simpsons/Family Guy branded Baby Translator

As featured on the Simpsons to turn all those baby gurgles and gibberish Ikean talk into real worlds, but with translations spoken by the voice of baby Stewie from Family Guy (Don’t worry about the cross-show legal copyright complications – Family Guy will have bought out Simpsons by then, being as it is the far superior show). No longer would we have to guess what that gobbledegook nonsense accompanied by frantic gesturing meant when our Stewie-Speaker would reveal the truth: “Hello, mother. I come bearing a gift. I’ll give you a hint. It’s in my diaper and it’s not a toaster.”

4. The Baby Stasis Machine

In which our adorable little bundles of joy (who we love) could be cryogenically frozen (quite safely) for short periods (say a day or two – week at most) while we read a book / catch up on the housework/ go on holiday.

5. The Selective Hearing Ear Plugs

Fitted in a mother’s ears they would filter out all sounds that are not absolutely essential. For example , “Mummy I put the cat in the washing machine” you would hear. Unimportant whining, the sound of CBeebies (Reloaded), endless noisy battery operated toys, your husband talking about football would all be blocked. Silence is set as the default but you can also programme your ear plugs to instead play relaxing music, stress-relieving affirmations, or talking books read by Antonio Banderas.

So there’s mine. What parenting inventions would YOU like to see on the market in another 50 years?

NOTE: All the above ideas will be listed at the patent office shortly so no copying people. I need a future income to feed my cat hoarding, reclusive, vampire literature writing lifestyle after all.

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Memories of a 2nd House

Posted by Josie on Sep 12, 2009 in Family, Me, Moments | 14 comments

Image by © Jutta Klee/CORBIS

The lovely Mr Dotteral over at ‘Bringing Up Charlie’ tagged me on a new meme - to write about a memorable ‘second’.

So I’ve chosen #5, the second house I ever lived in, which is very timely as for some reason I’ve been dreaming about it lately, a lot. Maybe it’s all this thinking about moving, a yearning in me to make a real family home of our own where Kai can grow up safe and free with space for play and adventures and growth. A place which Kai will remember and dream about and that will influence his feelings about what feels like ‘home’ for the rest of his life.

We moved into my second house when I had just turned five, in the winter of 1987 and for the next fifteen years that house was my world. The place where I dreamed and cried and laughed and played and grew.

I loved that house. My memories of it are vivid and fierce and very precious.

So, if you’ll forgive the indulgence, I’m going to take a break from the jokes tonight and share some of them with you. After all, in three weeks my Creative Writing course starts and I’m going to have to get used to doing some ‘serious’ writing for a change! It’s a bit of free-association which I’ve not really done before so bare with me…

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I am 6 0r 7. Sitting on the top step of the stairs in the dark when I should be in bed asleep. Listening to the murmer of my parents conversations, the hum of the television, the sounds from the kitchen as they boil the kettle or tidy up. Sounds of home, of safety and familiarity. I inch down, silently, one step at a time, wanting to get closer to that feeling.

I am 16. I am lying in bed listening to the rain hammer on the flat roof of my bedroom. I’ve decided I want to be an interior designer and mum and dad have given me free reign to decorate my room however I like. I often dream of a beach-hut hideaway so have crafted my room to make me feel like I’m by the sea. Holiday beach scavenges gift driftwood shelves, twisted sea-smoothed branches and endless stones and shells with which I fill my space. I’ve painted my favourite quotes from books and poems that I love straight onto the walls in meticulous, curving script. Tea lights twinkle – I must remember to blow them out before I fall asleep. I lie under the sail canapy I have hung over my bed, drifting on a sea of dreams. The world feels huge and full of possibility.

I am 9 or 10. The passageway down the side of the house is my own secret hideaway. In the hollowed out centre of the big shrubs that grow against the fence I have made my den. I can smell the damp earth, the peeling paint on the fence panels, and feel the rough prickle of the branches as I push my way through. There is a tin there, hidden under the foliage, full of secret things. In it is a piece of paper with the name of the boy I like at school. I haven’t told a soul, not even my best friend. I hope my brother hasn’t found it.

Christmas morning. Endless Christmas mornings. The rule is not to wake mum and dad before 7am. It is early but I am awake. I stick out a probing foot to prod the sack of presents at the foot of my bed and get that familiar rush of excitement and anticipation. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep now. I sneak into my brother’s room with my duvet wrapped around me and there he waits, equally awake and wide-eyed. We put our sacks of presents by the door and try not to look at them, filling the time till the promised hour playing games and talking in urgent whispers, muffling our giggles through our fingers.

Long summers in the garden. The paddling pool and water-fights with empty washing up bottles. Being given my own little patch of earth to plant seeds and forget-me-nots in. The heat of the greenhouse and the smell of the not-quite-ripe tomatoes and the compost heap. Swirling my fingers in the jelly soup of the frogspawn and watching the tadpoles in the pond grow legs and loose their tails. A plant by the Buddleia which was always, unexpectedly, covered in ladybirds. Writing in chalk on the patio slabs. Worrying that the initials marked in the cement by the previous owners meant that one of them was buried there. My shrine under the apple tree to Tabby, my cat, with the stone I had painted with her name on and jam-jars full of faded flowers and green water.

I am 19. It is September 11th 2001. I have come home from college and fallen asleep in a haze of fatigue. My Fibromyalgia is beginning to worsen although I don’t know this yet or what is wrong with me, only that I am tired and I hurt. My brother wakes me. Something has happened he says. We sit together and watch the TV in silence, shock and horror. I can’t believe what I am seeing. I cry but I can’t look away. Ant comes over after work and the three of sit and watch the same clips repeated over and over. Time stops. Pain and fatigue is forgotten. All I can feel is their pain, their loss. I do not sleep that night.

I am 7. We are sat eating tea. My brother will not eat his food. He is chewing the same mouthful of meat over and over until it is grey, tasteless ball that he cannot swallow. Mum is cross, “Just swallow it!” she says in her best pretend ’I'm not cross’ voice. But she is cross, and we both know it. She tries to get David take sips of water but still he will not swallow his food. He cries and has to spit it out. We have been here many, many times before. I kick my legs under the chair and feel smug that I am not the one being told off. We finish at last andI recite by rote “Thank-you-mummy-for-my-dinner-please-may-I-get-down” in one long drawn-out breath.

It is raining and the water is dripping through the bay window. We spring to action with tea-towels and margarine tubs to catch the drips. Christmas Cacti adorn the window sill. I have an overwhelming urge to twist off the tops, and draw smiley faces in the square panes of the window. Both are expressively forbidden. But thinking about it makes my fingers twitch.

We have been playing out in the snow and have come inside damp and rosy cheeked and smiling. I sit in front of the fire to thaw out. I can’t feel my finger tips and my ears buzz with cold. I rest the edges of my double-socked feet on the marble surround. Getting as close as I can without burning. A black and white ceramic cat shares the fireplace with me. When it’s my turn to dust I am extra careful with it, scared I will break it and get in trouble. It has yellow, glass eyes.

It is Sunday afternoon and I sit and doze on the sofa. Dad has the cricket on and the soft lull of the commentary makes me sleepy. I am full of dinner and memories of Sunday school.

I am 19. The contents of my room are packed into boxes and are being put in the removal van, ready to be unpacked in my new room at my mum’s partner’s huge and beautiful house. I sit and say goodbye. Dad hasn’t lived here for two years and somehow that makes it easier. This house isn’t home anymore – I am ready to say goodbye. After all, I am an adult now. Already dreaming of a home of my own with my boyfriend of nearly two years already. Thinking about him makes me burn with a fierce love and longing. He is my home now, somehow I know this. But still the tears come as a thousand memories tumble forward.

Goodbye 2nd house. Thank you.

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Out, Out Damn Spot!

Posted by Josie on Sep 10, 2009 in Kai, Me, Parenting | 28 comments

My mum has this theory that we’re all born with a ‘guilt’ gene that gets switched on when you have a baby.

I think she may be right.

It’s probably next to the selfish gene actually. Trying to steal it’s cake but then feeling dreadful about it afterwards.

Since becoming a mum I seem to live in a state of perpetual guilt, and the last couple of weeks have been no exception. In fact, I seem to be finding a whole range of new things to feel guilty about lately. Here is a ‘brief’ (ha ha yeah right!) run-down:

Source of agonising guilt #1 – the whole work/mum/wife/housekeeper balance thing

I want to be a good mother, I want to give Kai lots of one-on-one attention and fill his days with fun things to do.

I want to be a good writer, I want to do something for ‘me’ that is separate from my identity as a mother and gives me an important feeling of self-worth. I NEED this in a way that is hard to describe.

I want the house not to look like a shit-hole.

I want to be an attentive and caring wife, putting Ant’s needs before my own sometimes and be prepared to compromise. And not be a grumpy cow all the time.

Why is it I only seem to be able to achieve one of these things by neglecting all the others??

Source of agonising guilt #2 – I have been hiding out

For some reason I’m finding the whole sociable aspect of motherhood really, unbelievably hard at the moment. I’ve always had a bit of a reclusive nature when the chips are down, retreating to my duvet and my head when things get tough. I’ve been so tired lately. Kai’s been sleeping very badly again and I’ve been desperately trying to juggle all the things in guilt-trip #1. Since Kai came along the duvet days are less practical so the head retreats are getting more and more attractive and pervasive and I find myself avoiding social contact, hiding out at home or doing things with just me and Kai. Which is rubbish frankly, rubbish for me and especially rubbish for Kai who loves, and deserves, lots of time with other children (hence the guilt trip)

I don’t know why. The Competitive Mums / ‘Other Mother’ brigade don’t help – since I always manage to come away from their company feeling about as competent and worthy as dung beetle with two legs that can only go round in circles and not even shovel poo very successfully (which is an apt metaphor for motherhood if I ever heard one).

But they’re not the ONLY mums. There are nice ones! REALLY nice ones who make me feel safe and accepted and not judged. Granted, they’re in the minority but still. They are there.

So why am I avoiding them??

And lastly the biggy…

Source of agonising guilt #3 – a new tough love regime for Kai

I’ve talked about Kai’s sleep problems before, and also that I long ago made the decision not to use ‘crying-it-out’ as a solution. Once again I will stress, this is not about my judging other mums, but about me saying that I don’t believe letting bad sleepers cry it out is the only way to teach them to sleep. Maybe the quickest, but not your only option.

We’ve made real progress with Kai over the last few months. On a good night now he is quite happy to have a good long feed till he’s nice and sleepy and then lie down in his cot and go to sleep on his own (without his dummy!!) More often now when he does stir he will settle himself and go back to sleep. Until we come to bed that is. Then ALL Kai wants to do is sleep curled between us, feeding on and off for most of the night, and fidgeting and fussing. I’m exhausted. I’m loosing weight again, I’m looking tired and worn out. And actually that second part of the night? It’s getting worse.

On the one hand all the old problems are still there, the extreme wakefulness, the very real difficulty in getting back to sleep when he’s woken up, the possible nightmares/teething/tummy aches/fact that it’s a Tuesday, or whatever other mysterious thing it is that seems to make sleep such an issue for him.

But on the other hand? He’s not a little baby any more. He’s eating well, getting plenty of food and milk during the day. He’s coping better with separation and is secure and confident. He understands when you say no and bye bye and what it means. He’s also learning how to get his own way – unlike when he was an infant, what Kai wants now isn’t always what he needs.

Right now, now he’s older, secure and healthy, what he needs is sleep. He doesn’t need milk all night. And my instinct tells me he’s ready, ready in a way he hasn’t been before.

So we’re making some changes.

I’m not expecting him to go without comfort at night. I don’t think my role as parent ends at 7.30pm. But I am expecting him to go without milk. At the very least getting down to maybe only one or two feeds at night.

I’m not leaving him to cry it out. But I am accepting there may well be some crying involved. And as my very lovely friend pointed out to me today:

“A child fussing and crying in the arms of a loving parent is not the same as crying it out” – thank you again Ruthie, I needed to hear that.

So there we go. Not unreasonable I think but still,

GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT!!!

So come on then – as a parent what’s your big source of guilt right now? Purge people, PURGE!

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