I have listed, below, the seven stages of a night wakening and I apologise in advance for the expletives (sorry mum), but I think swearing was made for night time trauma!
That cry in the dead silence that wakes you from blissful sleep (if you’ve got that far). The ‘Shit! What time is it? Where am I?’ moment. You listen and you wait, hoping in vain that he’ll roll over and go back to sleep. No chance sucker! Time to get up, shuffle through to the room where sleep goes to die and resume the position.
Maybe, just maybe this might be a quick fix. Replace the dummy/ stroke the hair/ a quick cuddle/ soothing music and they might go back to sleep. Come on… Just this once?
Yes! They’re sleeping! If you can just make it out of the room you can return to your cosy bed. All you need to do is creep to the door, avoid the creaky floor board, not trip over the well placed musical toy, open the door, shush the cat, close the door, don’t let the handle click, tip toe to bed, slide back under the covers where it’s still deliciously warm and…. Fuck, he’s awake!
This is not one of those simple fix nights. Shit shit shit, no more sleep for you, you’re in it for the long haul. You bring out everything in your mummy sleeping arsenal including the big guns (calpol) just in case he’s teething (again… Seriously??). But the kid is not giving in, he’s gonna milk this for everything it’s worth. The well laid plans go out the window and you resort to muttering obscenities under your breath while humming dementedly and fantasising about your bed.
Aaaaaarrrgghhhh! Just go to sleep you little shit! My arm is dead from cuddling you, my feet are throbbing from pacing the floor, my throat is hoarse from singing lullabies and if I hear ‘Hush little baby’ on the stupid fucking mobile (that isn’t even in tune) one more sodding time I’m going to chuck it out the pissing window. I need to do stuff tomorrow! I can’t afford to be a walking zombie AGAIN! Sleeeeeeeep!
If he sleeps now, I’ll still be able to get three hours… If he sleeps now, I’ll still get two hours… 1 1/2 hours… 30 minutes. Just 10 minutes in my bed, please!
Otherwise known as admitting defeat. At this point you give up all hope of sleep and give the little horror what he wants. Whether it’s going to play, getting into your bed, having some food, it doesn’t matter. He’s won. It’s another day that starts at four o fucking clock, another day on three shitty hours of sleep. It’s just as well we love the little buggers or we really would lose the plot!
Is it too early for chocolate?