Eye of the Tired

Shell-shocked. That’s often how I feel when I first force open my eyes each morn. Not refreshed, not rejuvenated, and frequently, not ready to tackle the day ahead.

Never one to be labelled a morning person, I’ve always taken a few hours to thaw and kick into gear. Kind of like your old faithful car on a winters morning – takes a few revs to get the ol’ engine to come spluttering to life.

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.

6 Reasons Why You Would Not Take Your Toddler to the NRL Grand Final...

I’m popping back into the NappyDaze because I feel the need to mark a recent magical, momentous occasion in my world. No it’s not Harrison’s (so far) seamless transition from cot to “big boy bed”, which happened simultaneously with said massive event, but more the fact I have experienced live Rugby League Grand Final Glory, watching my beloved Saints, with my beloved Dad and husband win the 2010 NRL Premiership. Sing it with me, OH WHEN THE SAINTS, GO MARCHING IN, OH WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IN…!!!

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!

Farewell Ode to "Woof-Woof"

Dear Readers, I’ve an impromptu visit to make back into the NappyDaze, as I have a confession to make… I’ve committed the most cardinal, criminal sin since I could first call my self a Mummy – I’ve lost my son’s most treasured possession, the one that he sought solace and security in; his beloved “Woof-Woof”.

The accidental misplacement of such a cherished item does not sit well with me. The guilt is all consuming, and when you are one of those people who often feel remorse at the most ridiculous trivialities, you can understand I am swimming upstream in a strong current of shame. I envisage its like if the Queen lost one of her Corgi’s – although I concede that may be a bit of a stretch, seeing as though they are real, but you get the picture of remorse I am trying to paint, right?

“Woof-Woof”, a fluffy cattle dog and gift from Harrison’s Uncle Brad at birth, was, like all faithful canine companions, always at his side and would travel everywhere with him. Now each time he asks for it or mentions him (mostly out of habit) I feel like a heavy blanket is smothering my heart and I am almost all too choked up to speak.

However, to my absolute surprise, and to Harrison’s credit, he has been rather “British” about it – stoic, stiff upper lip and all that. He seems to have graciously accepted the line I have fed him – that “Woof-Woof” was sick and has had to stay at the Doctors. He reminds me of it in fact, after automatically asking for him. I think this will work fine until the next time we need to actually make a trip to said Dr (which seems to be happening far too frequently for my liking these days) – because no doubt my son with the memory of an age old elephant, will demand to see his “Woof-Woof” there and then.

The Husband is very matter –o-fact about the whole situation, pointing out there was going to have to come a time eventually when the two Siamese twins were to be separated. Such was Harrison’s strong devotion to this stuffed toy that I was beginning to have visions of it accompanying him to his first day of school, and keeping aside a seat for it at his very own wedding.

And sigh, I am back to feeling that all encompassing guilt again…

So the jury is still out as to whether we can replace the irreplaceable. I recall looking once for a similar one, just in case this cataclysmic event should take place (and I ought to have known it would eventually – one can only juggle so many items expected to be taken in one’s hand bag and not anticipate something in time going astray. Lets face it; it’s been my phone and my keys suffering the curse before!). But alas, it would seem there is only one “Woof-Woof” and now he has been lost to us all. Though I have Poppy on the case, promising to bring a special treat to make up for his absent-minded Daughter’s oversight when he visits this weekend.

There is also the small fact my son still has access to a motley crew of other must have items at his disposal. On the day “Woof-Woof” went missing, I was also forced to leave the house with Eye-ore, his dummy, along with T-Rex and Brachiosaurus. They seem to be bridging the gap and void that “Woof-Woof” left behind.

I suppose what upsets me the most is the sentimentality. This was a treasured toy I’d have loved to hand down to Harrison’s own children, and explain to them how cherished it was, how much comfort it brought him, in the hope they’d seek solace in it too. We never knew this would be the thing he’d cling to, the item that he’d revere amongst all others. Indeed, it wasn’t until he was about 11 months old that his fixation with it became evident. Hence the reason why it was only ever called “Woof- Woof” – we weren’t to know they just how adored it was to become. If we did, surely we’d have given it an actual name!

Harrison, I hope you will forgive your often forgetful Mummy for somehow losing such a precious possession. Farewell “Woof-Woof”, thank you for bringing my son such contentment and peace.