Most days, my morning goes like this:
Alarm call from The Baby around 6am. Get up and change her nappy while The Boyfriend makes a bottle for her and a cup of tea for us (I know, I’m lucky), and bring her into our bed. Have a play with The Baby in bed after she’s finished her milk until play turns to smacking, biting and pinching, at which point it’s back to bed for The Baby.
And then it gets interesting.
She will scream and shout and scream and shout and kick and scream until I go in to the nursery, to inevitably find her teddies and cushions on the floor, along with her sleeping bag (I have taken to calling her Houdini, she calls herself Oodindin). I believe she is testing the drop from top of cot to floor for future reference. Back into the sleeping bag, and back into the cot go The Baby her teddies and the cushions. Often at this point I end up scrambling under the cot for her dummy which has magically “Gone!”, which actually means she chucked it, knowing I will have to search for it. Oh yes, she is that wily.
Ten minutes later, I will repeat this scenario, in various states of undress/lather/grumpiness depending on whether I decided to get showered and/or dressed, or just try to get half an hour’s extra sleep. I’m obviously still in some kind of denial here; 14 months on and I still haven’t learned there is never going to be an extra half hour of sleep. Ever.
After repeating this exact thing another 3 or 4 times, depending on my patience levels, which seem to be directly related to my caffeine intake…hmmmm…I get The Baby up and bring her downstairs to get washed and dressed, have breakfast and a play, before trying it all again.
Sometimes, she then sleeps straight away. Sometimes it’s another half hour of battles from which I eventually emerge victorious (and frazzled). Sometimes, like yesterday, it’s another three hours before she sleeps.
Sleep and I joined forces and battled against The Baby from half past seven until half past eleven. Finally, begrudgingly, frustratingly, she succumbed. To half an hour’s blissful rest. I persuaded her to have another twenty minutes after that, but for the rest of the day, that was it. Fifty broken minutes of sleep, resulting in a broken mother who felt fifty years old.
And then there are days like today, when I get up and go to work and leave The Boyfriend to it all for the day. Every cloud….