Smirking From Home

Turning ideas into words.

Snooze Buttons

The only predictable thing about life is its’ unpredictability. One minute you’re splashing about in the pool having a whale of a time and the next you’re fish food. You spend ages mastering a skill or perfecting a routine task and before you know it the goalposts have been shifted, rendering all previous time and effort wasted. We’ve all been there at some point in your various employment histories. Nothing really prepares you, though, for whenever the guiding hand behind the metaphorical goalposts is a 3 month old chubby bundle of sleepy, hungry gowls.
For the past three weeks or so I’ve been enthusiastically regaling the other parents on the school run about how well the wee fella has settled into a sleeping pattern. “Aye, down at seven and sleeps right through”. “Well sure it means we have our evenings now, some quality time to ourselves”. “Nightmare!! Still not settling after two years?” Honestly speaking, I let people know about Robert’s new-found night-time pattern with a sub-conscious blowing of raspberries in their faces. I would even venture the notion that we all do it in some shape or form, the “isn’t my kid wonderful and yours is the spawn of Beelzebub” spiel. The sport of parental one-upmanship is played out in schoolyards and at coffee-mornings the nation over. Yet it’s not a deliberate, conscious series of actions. It happens without thinking in most scenarios, the notion that no matter what grey hair inducing, living hell they put you through in private, your kids are infinitely better than theirs. It’s an automatic reflex for a lot of people, a kind of parental Tourette’s.
Maybe I’m over elaborating the point here. I’ll readily admit to being astonished and proud of the newest little thing the wains have said or done and will happily tell other people as such. What riles this old goat is that there’ll always be another parent, usually a stay-at-home mother, who’ll tell you that her little Kayleigh or Josh learned to dump in a pot at 12 months whilst reading The Goblet of Fire. “Nice one”, I’ll say, wondering whether I should buy Robert a guitar and have him serenade Doctor Jab with Stairway to Heaven when he gets his MMR shots.
So there we were mooching happily along thinking Robert nicely attuned to sleeping right through when for a few days he decided to spice the routine up. 1am. 3am. Back to 1am with a leap forward to 4am the following night. The newest game in our house is guess the wake up call. Unsurprisingly and predictably we’re rarely accurate in our answers. Maybe that’s the joy of having children, the ceaseless variety in your life. Sure, if it’s during normal daylight hours. Just not in the dead of night with chilblains on me bunions* due to the frost outside.
We have two alarm clocks in our house. The digital one is permanently set to 07:30, a perfectly reasonable time to begin a long day of nappies, boke and yaps. Robert is the random alarm as you’ve no doubt worked out. No time of day is sacred and we’ve gone beyond the 28 days for a refundable return. Now if I can only just find the snooze button without resorting to a boink on the noggin, all would be a lot easier to live with. My star-signs are telling me I’m going to get some disapproving looks for writing that. A good friend of mine recently posted a sign on their newborns bedroom door, something along the lines of “The Little P.I.T.A”. When asked by his good lady wife what it meant, he was reminded that an attempt at humour where babies are concerned should come with a health warning. Somehow referring to a clockwork crying machine as the “Pain In The Arse” is not a source of amusement. Being of similar nature to the man in question, I chuckled heartily. Though I’ll remind myself to learn from his mistake. Always have a back-up answer, a get-away car.
Overall Robert been fairly generous to us in relation to his sleeping habits. Nocturnally at least. So no matter how much I appear to be having a good old moan about it here, I cannot really complain. On the contrary, I’ve discovered a few new shows on the telly at those ungodly hours. The Amazing Dermot is one of these. It’s the type of humour you feel you shouldn’t be laughing at but you do. I “roflmao‘ed” a lot actually. Then again, maybe it was the strangeness of the hour that did it.
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March 11, 2010 - Posted by | Bringing Up Baby, Ondatelly |

2 Comments »

  1. Callum (now verging on 6 months old) is rather fond of waking at various times during the night. At 4am this morning I was up offering him a knuckle sandwich, but he opted for a bottle of milk instead. I feel your pain mo charo, really I do…

    Comment by Bonz | March 12, 2010 | Reply

    • Been up since half 5 meself. Normally as a rising time I’m not too bothered but this morning Robert decided to stay awake. BY my internal clock it’s already seeming like teatime.

      Comment by Magz | March 12, 2010 | Reply


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