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End of a Sleepy Era?

Last night, for the first time in her life, Emmie slept in her own space.

She didn’t move far away - I made her a nest alongside our bed – but she was very definitely separate.

It felt like I had lost an arm to start with, and then it felt like I had got blind drunk and for the first time in I don’t know when I slept like I was dead.

We have discussed co-sleeping before at LLL meetings, and our leader talked about how you “lose” your deepest level of sleep when you co-sleep, which is the safeguard nature puts in place to stop you squishing your offspring. I can confirm that she was talking truth because I found that level of sleep again last night and oh-my-god-how-I-missed-it!!!!

Emmie - typically when you plan these kinds of big changes - is in the grips of a dreadful bout of teething coupled with the remains of a stubborn cold. All of which led me to have dreams of warthogs snuffling round the bed. She was blissfully unaware of her own nasal orchestrations and also slept like a log. She woke twice wanting a drink and then instead of doing what I feared which was freaking the fuck out about the fact that somehow mum was above her rather than beside her, she rolled onto her side, cuddled her favourite cushion and dropped straight back into snuffles and snores.

Part of me was a little hurt at that. Part of me was hoping that she would wail and complain and need to be gathered up and snuggled.

So was Keith. Despite his daily belly aching about being kicked in the head by super sharp toddler toenails he was threatening to bring her into bed with us for chuddles.

The part of me that was upset at Emmie leaving us was the part that felt I had let her down. My intention with co-sleeping was that she would choose when she moved into her own bed, not that I would get pregnant again so soon and face the growing (geddit) dilemma of fitting a toddler, man and Weeble into a 4’ 6” bed.


Perhaps I made the biggest mistake of all though in thinking that Emmie needed the power of speech in order to tell us the time had come.

Her actions last night spoke volumes: She enjoyed her space.

If I’m honest, I did too.

Friday, 21 December 2012 Comments: 0
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Bah Bloody Humbug!

There is nothing like Christmas to help you feel like a total failure as a mother.

I’m not sure if being a working mum makes it worse but at this time of year there seems to be a secret memo that gets passed around listing all the essential must haves and I’m not on the distribution list.

“You don’t have an Elf on your Shelf?”

“Haven’t you visited the PNP?” (That’s Portable North Pole apparently)

“Your house isn't festooned in homemade decorations and groaning under the weight of homemade treats?”
No.

To all those questions, NO!

I’m the mum who has been completely blindsided by the nature of modern Christmas.

There are 12 days left until Christmas and I haven’t finished buying gifts, let alone wrapping them.

I will consider it an achievement if we get through Christmas Day without the sinking feeling that we've entirely forgotten to buy for Great Aunt Mildred that requires me to race into the kitchen, dig out a selection of dusty homemade chutneys, and wrap them in a not-too-crumbled piece of discarded paper.

Esme won’t care either way. She’s at the age where her eyes light up at the chance to tear a piece of paper into confetti and feed it to the dog.

Alfie will care, but not about the present he’s been banging on about for the last month, it’ll be the crappy little stocking filler that he steals from his sister that will be his prize treasure.

And I’ll be left pretending that I don’t care that my decorations were shop bought or that I didn't have the time or energy to make some freaky little elven fecker do freaky little elven things throughout December.

I will care though, despite the fact that our Christmas will be filled with family, and the nativity and all the amazing lessons that come with it, because not only am I a mum, but I’m a Catholic mum.

If there’s one thing us Catholic mums know that unless you've knitted your own tree and raised your own turkey from an egg you might as well just admit you’re a non believer.

This year, I have managed neither.

Friday, 14 December 2012 Comments: 0
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Dr Hawa Abdi

Today I was flicking through my social media feed when a striking photo came up. It was the face of a woman and something about her just made me want to learn who she was and why she looked like she could cause grown men to cry at 50 paces.


Isn't she stunning? I wouldn't mess with her, but she is just beautiful in all the ways a woman should be.

I have done a lot of reading about Mama Hawa since I saw her photo - if anyone is looking for a Christmas gift for me I would LOVE to read her book - but I can't write anything as succinct as this article.
One of the biggest threats to Hawa's camp came in May of 2010, when a rampaging band of 750 Somali pirate motherfuckers showed up at her front door with AKs, RPGs, and mortar launchers, demanding that Dr. Hawa come out and surrender the hospital. Hawa Abdi, 63, unarmed, walked out there to meet them. She told them to get lost. They said they needed to talk. She invited their leaders to dinner – a pretty generous offer that I have no doubt had all of those assholes' heads spinning. While they were considering the offer, she sent the word out for the women in the hospital to get their shit together and sneak out as quickly as possible, a move that probably saved a shitload of lives.
At dinner, the leaders of the militia told Mama Hawa that since she was a woman she had no business running anything. She told them, "I've been working for the country for the past 20 years. What have you done?"
This didn't go over well.
The militia terrorist baby-kickers attacked, opened fire with machine guns, mortars, and rocket launchers, shot the place up, looted everything worth looting, broke every generator and piece of medical equipment they could find, beat a bunch of people up, and took the men, women, and children inside prisoner. Dr. Hawa was thrown under house arrest, barricaded in her room by armed guards. They told her to sign the papers and hand over her shit. She told them to get fucked. They told her not to do interviews. She got a cell phone and gave interviews to anyone who would listen.
I have such a passion for people who are willing to live outside of themselves. Especially when they are kicking it for justice and righteousness the way that this lady is.
Wednesday, 12 December 2012 Comments: 0
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The Magic Lullaby - Cielito Lindo

I’m not sure if I have mentioned this before, but I felt like I ought to properly share the mysterious magical song that has saved my butt more times than the “Recall Email” button.

Mysterious because I can’t for the life of me work out why it has such an instant and dramatic impact. It’s not even a lullaby! IT’S NOT EVEN IN ENGLISH!!

I can’t remember why, but at some point early in the days of rocking my infant son to sleep I worked out that there was one song that seemed to fit perfectly with my natural sway, and also had a dramatic impact on the level of woes being inflicted on my ears. I used it pretty much every night for the first 2 years of his life until I was physically unable to hold the lanky malcontent and was in imminent danger of going into labour with his sister when I tried.

Co sleeping meant we didn't have the same need to sing Esme to sleep, so the song wasn't rolled out until fairly recently when she has suddenly become unwilling to accept that the day is over and chooses to channel Linda Blair on my ass. In desperation I turned once again to this song and I’ll be damned if it didn't have the same instant punch-in-the-gut winded silence effect as it does on her brother.

This magical song?

A song originally about murderous smugglers and now sung by Mexican football fans and drunk Spaniards the world over.

Anyone even a tiny bit surprised?

Friday, 7 December 2012 Comments: 0
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Fast forward to Week 13

As the weather draws in I find myself listening to one particular album in the car that until the day I die will evoke feeling in me associated with being pregnant in autumn. It feels odd that I’m not listening to it on a countdown to birth, but it still makes me feel sanguine and hopeful and reminds me that I will bring a new life into the world.


Which is not bad for a bloke with a beard and a love of vintage tractors.

I try to remind myself to remember little things about this pregnancy, despite the fact that there are a million things to distract me. In some ways it’s nice to feel the occasional kick and to almost be taken my surprise again. Oh yeah, I’m pregnant.

I’m 13 weeks now, which is just crazy talk, and we are getting to that point where you slowly start to chew over names and sleeping arrangements.

Ah yes, sleeping arrangements. Or more accurately as my friend described it, a life size game of Tetris.
  
You start to allow a small glimmer of hope to burn when you get to 13 weeks. You see that scan and it starts to feel a little bit more real. You see the fat belly (and that is a FAT belly) and those spindly limbs and somehow it changes something.


That haphazard collection of strangely proportioned features become so much bigger than the sum of their parts.
Saturday, 1 December 2012 Comments: 0
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