the haunted look of the undead on the 8.12 to Victoria

February 21, 2011 § 15 Comments

I have been pondering the question, posed by Notes to self, plus two: what could I do today to make my life easier? This morning, on the train to work, hair bedraggled, no makeup on, eyes closed but still wearing reading glasses so as to not scare the commuters with my eye baggage, the answer came to me, as if in a dream: “Just get your head down a little earlier you bloody idiot.”

When Jerry Seinfeld became a father, he said: “I can’t get enough of my baby – but let’s make no mistake about why these babies are here. They’re here to replace us. They’re cute, they’re cuddly, they’re sweet, and they want us out of the way.” The way my boys have interrupted my sleep patterns for the last few years, at times I fear they may be plotting my demise. I won’t quote it because I’m actually quite sceptical, but if you want to read about some of the claimed side-effects of sleep deprivation you can scare yourself silly with this infographic compiled for sleep monitor company Zeo.

Saturday night, I slept well. I was asleep at half eleven, yet despite several nighttime trips to the loo, despite bringing the teething 1yo into bed at 4am where he proceeded to bat me around the head for an hour until he finally fell asleep, I had the rare pleasure of lying in bed until 9am. Therefore I felt equipped to deal with the 1yo deciding to go for a swim in a muddy puddle, then emptying a tub of poster paint all over his change of clothes, and later scribbling all over himself and the dog with a purple felt-tip pen. I felt able to laugh when the 3yo decided to tear open a packet of flour in the sitting room, and invented a new song entitled ‘oh god, oh my god, oh god god god.’ (He’s been to church once on Christmas Eve. I don’t think he was singing a hymn.)

But THIS morning? Still blotchy from hormonal weeping after watching The Royal Tenenbaums, I fell asleep at half eleven, then was awoken at four by 1yo, then half four by 3yo, who then proceeded to camp outside my bedroom door and roll small objects under the gap until I finally gave up and took him downstairs at half five. At that time a bowl of cornflakes dropped on the floor is as explosive as a bomb on my reserves of patience, and a pair of wet pyjamas induces the pouring away of yet more seratonin along with the washing powder. Despite the extended time-frame I still struggled to combine getting the children dressed and myself ready for work which led to the appearance of dishevelled crazy-lady, with the haunted look of the undead on the 8.12 to Victoria.

Is there something I can do about it? YES! Forget ‘having some quality time after the children have gone to bed.’ I just need to get my arse up the stairs and start going to bed at 9pm every once in a while. It might not kill me.

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