Ch 37: I wrote to the zoo to send me some....sanity.

Like many of us, when I was working full time, Sunday evening would arrive and with it, a serious case of the Sunday night blues. That sinking feeling of dragging your boring black leather heels through the concrete slabs that comprise the city. The Monday to Friday grind of time wasting meetings, office politics, managing up, managing down and moving briefs from one tray to another.

Now don't get me wrong, I do actually love my work. The sense of achievement, the relationship with my team mates, my portfolio of clients and the programs I manage.

It is the unavoidable incidentals such as the fast paced rat race, the hour long (on a good day) commute into the city and the small minority of challenging personalities that dampens the idea of rolling up on a Monday morning. And besides, weekends really are much more fun. I would so rather be on a long morning run than sitting idle on a freeway car park.

I am now ten months into a 13 month maternity leave arrangement from my workplace. The little master is nearing nine months old. He is growing and developing in leaps and bounds. On three solid meals a day plus milk feeds, he is sleeping all night, self feeding at lunch time, will take a bottle if I (heaven forbid) have a few hours away from him and is generally a very happy baby.

However, there's a slight issue. Upon starting my maternity leave, I relished in kissing the Sunday night blues away.

But they're back. Over the last few weeks they have started to rear their head again. In fact, today they crept in earlier once dear husband left for a Sunday afternoon golf game.

Like a toddler with my face pressed up against the window, I'm sure the neighbours could hear me wailing 'you're leaving me with him?! It's Sunday! But when will you be baaaackk?'*

It's not that I don't love the little master. I do, more than anything on this planet (sorry Buddy dog, you are a close second. Sorry dear husband, I guess that makes you a close third..?).

But it's official. I'm tired of looking after him 99 per cent of the time. I'm mentally fatigued, done with the nursery rhymes, the whining from new teeth pushing through those sore little gums, the repetitive mind numbing games and the busy yet mundane nature of feeding, settling, terribly bad singing, terribly bad dancing, bottom burps, banana vomits, banana and yoghurt vomits, face wiping and bum cleaning. Plus, if I have to read Dear Zoo one more time I think I'll end up in one.

Unlike my workplace, there are no pay rises for mothers at home, in line with CPI or workplace agreements. There are no formal performance reviews or opportunities for someone to sit down with you and tell you you're a superstar and that you're doing a marvellous job.**

Instead, many mothers at home, on a daily basis, grapple with the notion of being critiqued for our parenting styles, the size and shape of our baby, what they're eating, what they're not eating, are they crawling, are they walking, are they tap dancing yet..?

Although I have committed to seeing through my maternity leave arrangement, late last week I secured the little master a place in the most amazing child care facility for January 2013.

Whilst walking through the playground, the little master kicked his legs with excitement and I, holding back tears of relief, mentally wiped out the images of other centres we had toured through over recent weeks.

This was the Rolls Royce of centres. Amazeballs is an understatement. Plus it is less than a ten minute hop, step and wiggly jump from my work. And they have chickens. Real chickens...I know, I know.

I can't wait to send him there, to further develop those skills he has learnt at home and to flourish in a social, learning and nurturing environment. Did I mention the chickens?

As for me, bring on Monday mornings, my white crisp shirts, suit jackets, performance reviews, all day meetings, briefings, agendas, bits of paper.

Although it won't be easy and I can guarantee an array of tears from my behalf after dropping him off at childcare on day one, but I believe combining work and parenthood will make me a better mother and a better employee. I will value every moment I will share with the little master of a morning, night and on a weekend. I will work to live, not live to work and will very much look forward to reading Dear Zoo every single night. Over and over and over again.

* Dear husband did offer to cancel his golf game this afternoon out of respect for my sanity. However I refused his offer to stay at home, he too needs the time away to refresh himself..pity it takes five solid hours on a golf course to do so!

** Dear husband also does praise me every day and tells me I'm doing a great job. But as my husband, he has to do that...but I love him regardless. Thanks DH.

Oh, and I really do love Dear Zoo. That is all.

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Ch 25: Dear Winter - bugger off.

Dear Winter,

I'm pleased to advise that your time here is coming to an end. 

You have performed well in 2012 – short days, bitterly cold nights, frosty car windows, adequate rain not to mention a storm or ten. I heard it was a good ski season too..but I wouldn't know. The thought of frolicking around in the alps makes me want to kick a snowman in the head. Too much? Sorry.

However, we caught a glimpse of Spring today and to be honest, she's looking pretty good. The little master and I welcome the thought of not being so housebound for days on end and Buddy dog can't wait to lose his winter locks not to mention those comfort food kilos.

Plus, these two kids are getting sick of the sight of each other. Poor Bud copped a kick in the head today from the little master...out of pure boredom. Ouchy.

So Winter, enough is enough. We're done for another year. So pack up your thermometer and be on your way. You know where the exit is.

Oh and don't let the door hit your frosty bum on the way out.

Kind regards

AP

Dear Spring,

Welcome! Oh how we have missed you!

Love

AP xoxo

 

 

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Seventeen

Asleep. It's lunchtime.

I'm baaack. What a week, one I'd rather forget.

Think – sore head, snotty nose, chesty cough, cloudy head, itchy eyes.

The dreaded winter cold hit our household and it hit in a big way.

First it was dear husband then one week later myself and the little master out for the count.

Buddy dog managed to escape it, lucky him. Speaking of such, we finally got around to dragging his little paws off to the vet for his annual health check up and vaccinations. The end result – a picture of canine health! Yay for us, we're not bad parents after all! Even though he was shaking on the vet's table, fearing a bad report card.

Anyway, back to our winter bug. It left us tired and drained. But one week on we finally had a decent nights sleep. No more comfort feeding at 10pm, 12am and 3am. Not to mention all day grizzles, saline nose drops, an endless array of tissues and a little bit of children's panadol.

Although there are still remnants of the bug hanging around, the coast is relatively clear. Even more exciting is no more cabin fever. We left the house today and I'm off to play netball tonight. Joy. Bliss.

Plus, we made a new friend. Welcome to the household Mr Vicks Vaporizer.

You smell sooo good.

On other news, the little master has officially passed the six month mark and we are celebrating with daily serves of rice cereal.

Now don't you taste sooo good. Sure...

However one such rather nasty consequence of the introduction of solids...Mr P is now not only an even more regular annoying little ferret but one rank smelling 'friend'.

Yes, I used the word rank. Don't judge me. I think it should be used more often.

'That poo smelt rank'.

'The harsh comments being made about Olympic swimmer Leisel Jones is just rank'.

'The attitude of the salesperson who knocked on my door trying to get me to change energy providers, again, was really rank.'

You see?

Or maybe the result of long term sleep deprivation is starting to rear its rank little head...

Asleep. Still. Second cycle. Joy.

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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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