Friday, October 22, 2010
Being a non-coffee drinker doesn’t help. I often think longingly of those people who get their instant kick-start to the day after the first caffeine hit seeps into their veins. Sure, I do have my diet-coke affliction, but when you only allow yourself one offering a day, you’d be silly to use it up too early in the part. Plus there really is something a little gross about downing soft drink before the clock strikes twelve…
What’s prompted this post is the fact that Harrison has progressed into a “big boy bed” and it’s fair to say, he had adapted much better than his Mummy! We have been incredibly lucky thus far; no major meltdowns at having to forgo his formerly beloved cot, and most importantly, no escape antics at any time of the day and night. I’d always had visions of Harrison helping himself to biscuits at midnight or trying take in some taboo late night TV once he was granted leave from behind the bars of his cot. But no. So far he has enjoyed a rather seamless transition – except for one fact. He cannot stay put between the sheets, let alone snooze at the right end of the bed.
You never know where you might find him. The other morning at 2am he was fast sleep right down the far end of his bed, little legs dangling dangerously over the edge. One more wriggle and he’d have found himself on the ground. Indeed the morning before it, he did just that, at about 5am… Hence the trek down the hallway every two hours or so checking and rearranging him so as to ensure his safety.
If I am to be bluntly honest, I’ve always had an unhealthy relationship with sleep. Its why I usually find myself tucked up in bed ridiculously early most nights; partly because of pure exhaustion, but also often to make up for the stretches of sleep I am robbed of at any given time of the night when I’ll stir, leaving my brain kicking itself instantly into gear. Yes, even when I wake and feel shell-shocked, my mind can still be racing at a speed to match Mark Webber.
It’s not uncommon for me to find myself mulling over the days events, or musing about what lays in wait for an hour or so at any given time of the night. The monkeys in my mind swing from vine to vine with an elasticity that would impress even the most flexible of gymnasts.
Then there’s the part of me that, since becoming a mother, has long since lost the ability to relax. An element of me feels like I will never sleep soundly again, just knowing there is a little person down the hall who could wake at any given moment of the night, for any given reason. It’s rather stupid really, as he truly is a great night sleeper, but a stubborn portion of my subconscious refuses let me wind down entirely, hence leaving me rather unnecessarily anxious at the thought of what might lay in wait.
Yes, it could be much worse – I’m all too aware of that. For instance I recall only too well that nothing compares to the most truly draining days of tending to a newborn… But when you are bleary eyed and feel fatigue has been granted permanent residency in your bones, you really cant see past your own bags beneath your eyes that are beginning to rival Paris Hilton’s luggage.
So, perhaps it would be for best if I just attempt to make peace with the tiredness; stop using so much energy fighting and loathing it... It’s just another consequence of the life we live, and simply a par for the course, that once you board this parenthood merry-go-round, you must be prepared to prop open your eyes with matchsticks.
Posted by Donna at 8:34 PM
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Ok, so I realise I have probably lost a lot of mummy readers at this point and made you prone to yawning in protest at the mere thought of reading on. But its got me to thinking, that while I’d have loved to also share this special moment in time with my son (and eventual Dragons fan, sorry husband) there are many reasons why I wouldn’t yet expose my toddler to this fanfare.
1. AGE SHALL NOT WEARY THEM – MUCH! I suppose the obvious question here is why would any sane parent subject their just turned two year old to an event on such a grand scale as this. With almost 84,000 fanatical fans in attendance, it’s not quite a calm environment for your child to spend a total of 8 hours of his day. Sure, there were some brave adults bearing children dotted about us in the crowd. One was an easily contained 6 week old, wrapped snugly in the lap of her Mummy, while others appeared to be of the 6 year old plus variety. What was most evident however, was there non-stop mission to eat as much junk food as they could readily consume in one sitting. Its as if the parents were only too happy to comply, as it no doubt bought them some peace. But that sugar hit has got to take flight at some time and they’ll either fall in a heap and want to sleep (on your lap, which kinda precludes you from standing and cheering your team on), or acts as a catalyst for a crazy energy rush. No thanks, lets just all agree to leave out the littlies from large events such as these!
2. THERE’S ONE IN EVERY CROWD: And in my case, he was sitting right next to me. You know the type, right? The obnoxious know-it-all fan who proceeds to spew forth with sarcasm, hurl abusive comments, and proclaim to be the leading expert on all things Rugby League related. There wasn’t a minute of the game go by that wasn’t critiqued with snide derision – and all at the top of his lungs (just in case the people in the cheap seats couldn’t quite hear him). Funny thing was, for such a “die hard” Roosters fan, he wasn’t decked out in a single form of fan paraphernalia. There has to be some sort of rule against that – you wanna voice your obtuse opinions? Well go right ahead and be my guest. Just be sure to back it up by being decked out in your teams colours – and then I might cut you some slack.
3. MUMMY MONSTER: As a direct response to Number two, the Mummy Monster, (aka die hard sports fan) rears her ugly head. And I truly think no two year old should see its adored Mummy morph into a screeching banshee, even if was just an attempt to show Obnoxious Neighbour how truly annoying it is to enjoy your day out at the footy with a lunatic seated at your side.
4. LANGUAGE LESSONS: And to now neatly segue into reason number four to leave toddler in the care of babysitters (thanks Shez & G!), whether it be as a result of the Obnoxious Neighbour, or the Mummy Monster, there is no escaping the fact the atmosphere is literally teeming with expletives and offensive phrases. Sure, your child might come home with a newly minted colourful vocabulary, but it would be the variety that could well see us kicked out of our lovely day-care – or at the very least, issued with a stern “please explain” . There’s plenty of time ahead in the school playground for these forbidden phrases to be bandied about illegally by the big kids, I’m sure…
5. EVERY WHERE YOU GO, YOU ALWAYS TAKE THE WEATHER WITH YOU: Its one thing for me to be out in the inclement elements, risking pneumonia for the sheer possibility of seeing my team take home the coveted NRL Premiership, but quite another for me to subject my young son to it. Trust me, when your team, after 31 long years, is starting to look like a sure thing to win, suddenly you could care less about be caught out in the drenching rain. You are more than happy to sing and dance and cheer uncovered, but I am aware the novelty might wear off a little quicker for Harrison.
6. THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME: Now at days end, when you are overwhelmed with glee and hoarse from excitement, you wish for only one more thing – to have some Ruby Red shoes that you could click together, Dorothy-style, and magic you back home, minus the horrendously long queue for the train. When you and approximately 60,000 others are looking to leave the same time, and via the same mode of transport, a spade load of patience is required. Try telling a toddler this, who’d no doubt by this time be cold, wet, overtired, buzzed out on all things junk food that there was now about 90 minutes time til you arrived at the comfort of your own home. No thank you. Not even all the fabulous Dragons camaraderie in the world, (complete with the continual chanting of When the Saints Go Marching In) can placate a toddler through the transition from the stadium to home. Best they be all tucked up in bed at Aunty Shez’s for when you all eventually stumble excitedly in!
So while my boy has been lucky enough to take in a good share of NRL games, I think its safe to assume we’ll leave the massive, off the Richter scale matches to a time when, say, he is old enough to purchase his own ticket – or at least able to promise not to eat out the entire contents of the canteen close by. Still, I’ll be sure to relay to him for many years to come, the absolute exhilaration of the day, and how his Poppy and I cheered and danced and clapped til we were raw with delight.
My only final hope is that it does not take him 31 long years to enjoy a similar sporting success!