Skip to main content

Sleeping Beauty (or is that the beast?)

The Small(er) One is on sleep strike and I am re-enacting The Night of the Living Dead. Last night she wailed and whined and screamed and yelled pitifully for rescue, starting with a plaintive plea of "Mummy! 'Elp me!", then running through all the names of family members she could remember, and finally ending with "Teddy!"

Ignoring a seemingly desperate child is a tough call (although if I recall, we were fairly stern with Firstborn; maybe the guilt of working full-time is chipping away at my resilience). The Small(er) One worked herself up to the kind of blood curdling screams worthy of a Hammer Horror, resulting in Firstborn racing into our bedroom with her hands over ears and shouting "Make it stop!", at which point lying in bed gritting our teeth and hoping she would cry herself out seemed like an exercise in S&M (trust me, a gimp suit would have been more relaxing). Alpha Male and I ended up clinging to the sides of our bed for the rest of the night, with the Small(er) One in a starfish pose slap bang in the middle. Firstborn, poor love, passed out in the foetal position at the very end of the bed, groaning and grumbling at her misfortune in having a nocturnal beast for a sister.

Going into work this morning was a flashback to my early twenties, without the fun that used to come before the severe sleep deprivation after-effects. My auto-pilot haze was so severe that I felt surprised when I emerged from the tube station; my brain was still deep underground.

I'm starting to look forward to the girls reaching puberty. The thought of them staying in bed all day seems like an impossible dream...


Oh, I can so relate! I am anxiously
awaiting the sleeping in days. I am
just waiting for the sleeping thru
the night days.

I am one of the walking dead with you!
Emily said…
I am the waking dead too. It started last year with:

I run up stairs in total fear that she has trapped herself in her cot bars, to see her blanket has fallen off and she wants it back.


A sleeping bag curtailed that for a while. Nothing like mumification.

Now in a bed, the calls for help range from imaginary crabs or spiders in the bed, even pretend sand. Or she wants a book to look at from downstairs, water or a teddy we haven't seen for weeks.

Up and down the stairs every night. I wish I lived in a bungalow.

She's getting better now but always plays up when something important is happening, such as an England football match!

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …