Fourteen

Asleep.

I have mentioned at various times throughout this blog that sleep cycles rule my world. Although this is still very true, there is one other influential culprit that can cause some havoc in our lives.

This culprit is cunning.

It sneaks up on you when you least expect it and has little regard for timing.

It makes their presence felt through an array of squeals and cries plus an unmistakable stench.

Yet we can't live comfortably without it regularly making an appearance.

You know what I'm talking about right?

(insert nodding of head here).

I'm referring to the poo.

What? Too much? I'm sorry if you were eating your lunch but I can't tip toe around this one.

Awake.

We have entered our second week of transitioning the little master out of his woombie swaddle. We are up to both arms being out during his day time sleeps. We got off to a rough start at week two but have since been pleased with our progress. Very proud of the little master.

Until we reached 12.40pm today.

Usually at lunch he will wake after one cycle and with some whinging he will drop back off for another well needed 45 minutes. This second cycle at lunch time is absolutely crucial to our day. Remember this?

Today, when he woke after 40 minutes, I did the usual. Stuck my head in, told him to 'go back to sleep' (he really does know what it means!) and let him re-settle.

At the risk of being awarded the July 2012 'Awful Mother of the Month' Award, I will refrain from mentioning how long I let him have a 'bit of a whinge' for. Don't stress, it wasn't obscene..no need to call the authorities on me now ok? Let's just say I have been determined to make this swaddle transition work.

So more clumps of hair began leaping from my already balding head and our carpet now has permanent pacing marks from my winter ugg boots.

Enough was enough. I gave in and raced in to give the little master a cuddle.

And there it was.

The poo.

The awful stench of you know what, hit me in the face like a gold plated 'Awful Mother of the Month Award'.

I cried with guilt and the little master smiled.

He then looked at me as if to say 'how was I meant to re-settle with that in my dacks Mum?!'

Stupid Mum. Forgiving baby. Scared dog hiding under the bed. Smelly nursery.

I wiped our tears away and carried on. Another day, another lesson learned – don't mess with the poo.

While he re-settles for another cycle, I'm going to dig out my trophy engraver. I think I have July 2012 in the bag.

Asleep. Just.

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Thirteen

Awake. Both arms out of the swaddle. Muttering to himself.

Bloggers block. What to write about..

It's been a quiet week resulting in a quiet brain. Focusing on day sleeps transitioning the little master out of his swaddle. Fun times. Not.

Last week it was his right arm out. Regular sleep and resettling on his own achieved with great success.

Yesterday, full of confidence, both arms came out. 'He'll be in his sleeping bag in no time,' I ranted to my dear husband.

Morning sleep was perfect. Happy as, barely a whimper, asleep within ten minutes.

Lunchtime sleep. Bloody nightmare.

I won't mention how long he whinged for. Let's just say for the first time in weeks and weeks I found myself pacing up and down the hallway pulling hair out by the fist full wondering if it was too early for a drink, chanting 'short term pain, long term gain!'

After err.. 'some time', we waved the white flag and abandoned ship. Put the little master back with the one arm out for some well needed rest - for both of us.

He woke after one sleep cycle, happy as Larry (who the heck is Larry by the way?!), fed, changed then off for a late..quite late lunch down by the water.

Some much needed fresh air, laughs and giggles at the duckies plus a hearty chicken burger with greasy fries did the trick.

It was, of course, a decoy to avoid another sleep at home. So the afternoon nap was had in the pram whilst I contemplated how cold the ocean was that day.

Kidding...as I said it was all magically fixed with a chicken burger. Burpety burp.

On the upside, it is day two with both arms out and the little master is asleep. Morning was perfect and lunchtime (current) not far behind.

Better well stay that way because not only do I have bald patches on my head, there's not a chicken burger in sight!

Asleep. With both arms out. Joy.

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Seven

Reflections on the previous night.

6.45pm
Asleep

4.00am
Awake, change, feed, asleep, mother doing happy dance in hallway

7.00am
Awake, smiling, change, play, feed, mother so energised she is ready to run a marathon.

On second thoughts, perhaps another happy dance will do the trick.

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Five

Asleep

Awake

Agrh, hadn't even put a word down yet!

Then again, this is quite timely...

Yesterday was a clear example of how sleep absolutely rules every second of our world.

It was an early start at 6am. Rather than greeting the little master with a joyful grin and baby talk of 'did you sleep well my little angel??' He was met with cries of 'Noooo, really? Whyyy? Cawffee? Please! Somebody!'.

Note – he did receive the cheesy grins once the caffeine had hit my bloodstream.

Silent

It was Friday and we were off to the city to get our adult conversation fix with my workmates. A team lunch where I could catch up on all the goss and handball the little monster, oh sorry, master, off to his adoring aunts who fuss over his every move, smile and bottom burps.

It was a 12.30pm start at a fabulous restaurant on Bourke Street. Lunch selection already pre-ordered, car park organised, high heels on, ready to rumble.

Easy peasy right?

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Silent still, too scared to go in and check in case I rev him up again. Come'on go to sleep..

Oh I can't help myself, in I go.

Asleep, just. Better bang this one out.

I won't bore you with the minute details of the morning and what really went down from 6.00am –12.30pm in our household.

The result was not only missing lunch but then abandoning a secondary plan to pop into the restaurant for a coffee only as we were going to be arriving too late.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This then progressed to skipping the lunch and the coffee completely and finding myself out the front of Parliament House rocking the master to sleep in his pram. Without a workmate or mushroom and ricotta gnocchi in sight. Or a lunchtime glass of wine for that matter.

On a learning note, amazing what a bit of sun glare can do to force the eyes to close^. *cough*

The culprit of such a disastrous late arrival was clear – 50 minutes of fighting his mid morning sleep then waking up after 15 minutes only to drop off again for a full 45 minutes. Little bugger. Was still asleep when we should have been perusing the wine menu.

But that's ok (well actually it wasn't at the time, I'm being nice). Arriving well over an hour late, dessert being served but with the majority of my team heading back to the morgue, sorry office, I managed to laugh it off all unbeknown to the sleeping master in the pram.

“Wha? I've missed lunch? Really? Oh darn!” *laughs it off, rolls the eyes* - you know the drill.

So yes, sleep cycles currently rule our world. For the greater good? In the long term yes. In the short term when it declares war on mum's adult time – not necessarily.

I did, however, manage to get my office gossip fix upon walking back to our workplace and his aunts quietly cooed over his beautiful sleeping face, thumb in his mouth, silent as a mouse sleeping style. He turns it on when it matters, of course.

All in all, we left happy. Hungry, but happy.

Asleep, still. Keep going little man.

Whilst he is still down, I might start preparing tonight's dinner. Have a hankering for a mushroom and ricotta gnocchi....

^Little master's vision not harmed, simply being facetious..sort of.

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Four

Awake but dropping off

We have just come home from my niece's fourth birthday at...

wait for it..

wait..

you guessed it – a play centre.

Or in the words of the birthday girl's mother: 'a germ infested hell hole'.

(insert shiver down spine here)

That it is my dear. Even more evident when a four year old young lady warned me not to go on the jumping castle because 'there was wee on it'.

'Oh darn it' I groaned as I put my shoes back on. I only came for cake and the jumping castle.

I have always likened play centres as the adult equivalent of a drunken pub crawl – lots of unruly behaviour, too much alcohol..oops I meant sugar, fried food, lots of bumps and bruises, fighting then cuddling because you can't remember what you were fighting about in the first place, then concluding with an array of tears and a long long nap.

Asleep.

Whilst he is out for the count I'm off to disinfect my clothes, my hair, the pram, nappy bag, my clothes again..and so on and so forth.

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Three

Reflections on the previous night.

6.00pm

Asleep

2.20am

Awake, change, feed, asleep

6.20am

Awake, change, feed, asleep

7.45am

Awake, smiles, refreshed and Mum feeling like a million bucks.

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Two

Asleep.

It's night time, which means a good long sleep for him and a glass of wine for me. Joy. Always conscious of the beautiful dark and warm red vino leaving my system before his overnight feed usually results in a small glass guzzled with a hearty meal of carbohydrates. However if I overindulge with two glasses I will wake up gingerly accompanied by a headache. How embarrassing, such a lightweight now. Contrary to my past.

Ah yes, my past. Fun. Carefree. Social. Wasted? Don't think so. Perhaps self indulgent to an extent. If I wanted to do something, little would stop me. Fortunately I have an amazing husband who has only ever been supportive of my personal interests and ambitions. Some costing us a few dollars along the way (think last minute interstate trips for footy finals, Crawf's 300^th game in Tassie, cutting back work hours to go back to study..oh the list goes on and on).

But we had the means to do it. I worked hard, very hard and played hard too. I rewarded myself with experiences, not clothes or materialistic goods. With memories that will stay with me forever.

Memories. Friday nights at the local. Beer with hot chips. Salt and vinegar chips as an entree. Chicken parmas. More beer. The occasional cheeky dart. Footy on the telly. John behind the bar. Helping the elderly man from his bar stool to the taxi week in week out. Red wine. Mates. Laughter. Dusty hangovers.

 

Present. Friday nights in bed at 9pm. Bum cream. Nursing pads. Sophie the Giraffe teething toy. Baby time sessions at the library. Sleep cycles. Nursery rhymes. Burping. Coffee dates with new mums. Pram in the car. Pram out of the car. Smiles. Cries. Sleep deprivation. Pram friendly cafes. Feet tickles. Poo explosions. Apologising for cancelling..again. Bad hair. Jealous dog.

This is it, for now. Perhaps I wasn't ready to let go of my former self. I miss my friends, my workmates, my footy crew, my reliability and belonging where I was comfortable. Although they haven't disintegrated , things have changed. Getting out and about can be hard. At times it's a huge effort that not many appreciate or could understand. It can be isolating and confronting when you realise who your true friends are.

On the upside I have a beautiful and healthy little fella who is reliant on me for the best start in life. What an overwhelming responsibility. New friends have emerged. Friends in similar situations, sharing the same experiences, the ups and the downs. The fun times and the bad times. We're in it together. Smile as we wipe the milk vomit off our pyjamas at 4am. Be thankful.

Welcome to the club. There's only one way in and no way out.

Asleep. Still.

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One

So I started to write. I had to, my mind was slowly turning into a vegetable mush, much like what I will be soon feeding to my four and half month old bundle of testosterone joy.


Asleep.


Finally, he has dropped off. Overtired. My fault. Put him down ten minutes too late. I've had to let him cry it out and my heart hurts for doing so.

This is what my life is like now – timing my whole existence around sleep cycles and feeding, debating whether the crying pain is wind, crankiness, hunger or boredom. Constantly battling with various emotions and second guessing whether I'm doing the 'right' thing.

Why does it feel like I am the only one with a baby who cries when tired? Sounds silly doesn't it? Yet I am amazed as to how many other babies I have met who just drop off without a murmur. I wouldn't change him. He has character. He is active. A challenge but blessed with an intoxicating personality, regularly showcasing an array of smiles. He is beautiful.

Me, well I'm tired, still. It's been 18 weeks. We have a good night and I'm still tired. I think I'll be tired forever. I worry I've lost the ability to write well and wonder how I will cope back in the workplace. I still have time up my sleeve so I need to write, to vent, to share and to laugh upon reflection.

So here I am, writing during his sleeping times. The sound of the keyboard, the backspace the double space. I'm back. But where to start? What would be interesting? What would be worthwhile?

Please please not another blog or piece about the joys of parenting (insert ray of sunshine here). Not that there's anything wrong with that...it can just give the wrong impression.

New parents gloat about how much of a good time they are having. How their angel doesn't cry when she got her needles (bulldust..really how many eight week old babies don't cry when they have two big needles shoved into their miniature legs?). How they are sleeping for hours and hours of a night time, how feeding is blissful and it came with such ease and how they would do it all again tomorrow. Never any problems. Never.

They haven't cried more tears in four months than in the past 30 years.

Or have they?

Do they actually go home, undress out of their 'good' clothes depicting an image of happiness and confidence?

Do they throw on their sloppy joes and slippers, wipe their makeup off and collapse on the couch for another session of feeding, screaming, settling, playing and supervising?


Do they?

If they're lucky, they might catch a beautiful smile that in a split second can relay enough positive energy to help you forget any negative connotation that comes with being a sleep deprived new parent.

Awake.

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