The world has shrunk to a series of babysecretions and attempts to detect sleeping patterns in apparent randomness. The Middle and Morning Watches are the toughest, though even the Dog has a bite. My night is coloured headache-grey. But it’s amazing how much good a two-hour doze can do you. Thatcher used to run the country on one ten-minute nap per fortnight of course. Mind you Churchill used to spend every afternoon kipping in his jim-jams while Nursey read to him from Sense and Sensibility, so everyone’s different.
It’s also amazing how quickly you become immune to the babysecretion element. Immune is wrong, you become fascinated. Ooh that’s a good one. The hard part is actually getting up in the middle of the Dog Watch to change the nappy; its contents are perfectly manageable. I suggested to Mrs Brit that we play Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock (thanks Nige) to decide whose turn it is. That proved too mentally taxing for daysleepers. Unfortunately so did normal Rock-Paper-Scissors. Even tossing a coin was too complicated so in the end we agreed that whoever lets out the biggest sigh doesn’t have to do it.
No really we’re loving it mostly. I don’t want to go back to work, though next week I must. It being the school holidays, an ice cream van is cruising the area. He’s playing O Sole Mio (the English translation of which is of course “Just one Cornetto”) to lure the kiddies, but something’s wrong with his music machine and it’s playing at about two-thirds the correct speed. This makes it sound mournful and heartbreaking. How can anyone be so cold-hearted as to refuse to buy one of the poor man’s ice creams? I picture him weeping gently into his cones and feel a strong urge to rush out to console him, perhaps by purchasing a Fab. My protective instincts must be over-secreting, I think.
7 comments:
Sorry to jump ahead, but it's when the solids commence that it really gets interesting.
My guess is that regular consumption of garishly coloured ices (maximum additives please) would get you through the day. Not sure for how long, though.
some might say the ice cream van sounds maudlin, others might say spooky - have you checked to make sure mr noseybonk isnt hiding in a rusting ice cream van round the corner?
daysleeping is one of the main causes of 'sleep-terrors', something I used to suffer from regularly during my nightclubbing days:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_terror
and on that cheery note, hope you are having fun!
Give it two more weeks and you'll be totally poo proof Brit, time plus proximity equals immunity.
Here's how the krauts train their kinder.
"Kristin!" cried her mamma dear,
"I'll go out but you stay here,
Try how pretty you can be
Till I come again," said she.
"Docile be, a good child and mild,
Pray don't suck your thumb, my child,
For if you do the tailor'll come,
And bring his shears and snip off your thumb
From off your hand as clear and clean
As if of paper it had been."
Before she'd turned the corner south,
She'd got her thumbskin in her mouth!
Bang! here goes the door ker-slam!
Whoop! the tailor lands her-blam!
Waves his shears, the heartless grub,
And calls for Dawmen-lutscher-bub,
Claps his weapon to the thumb,
Snips it square as head of drum,
While the lass her tongue unfurled,
And fired a yell heard 'round the world.
Who can tell that mothers sorrow
When she saw her girl the morrow!
There she stood all steeped in shame.
And not a thumbskin to her name.
Well, that's one way, I suppose.
Worm's comment has inspired me to do my bit to raise awareness of the night terror, the curse of midnight-oil-burning slackers everywhere (but hopefully not new Dads):
http://gawragbag.blogspot.com/2009/08/night-terrors_18.html
The night terrors have receded since Night One, Worm, though Malty's thumb poem might bring them back. Mrs B had a cracker of a waking dream on Night Two - I might post it if I get permission.
Gaw - I did think I was immune to the excretions etc, but just now I got hit by what can only be described as a Projectile Poo. A quite incredible phenomenon, had to change all my clothes.
but just now I got hit by what can only be described as a Projectile Poo.
Didn't they cover that in your pre-natal classes? It's called bonding with Dad. After an experience like that, how could you ever say no to tuition fees and that trip around the world?
Just back. Hearty congrats to both of you. My, but she is a looker.
The first 12 weeks or so have to be seen as the Basic Training of parenthood, I think. It's pretty punishing, and you don't learn anything that would normally be considered useful, but it's dinned into you somewhat effectively that Everything Has Changed and your life is no longer in any sense your own. If your lovely little RSM starts to bawl, then you'd better jummp to it, by God. Similarly, if on some sadistic whim she insists that you spend the whole night pacing round the kitchen crooning half-remembered nursery rhymes, then again, yours not to reason why, etc.
I've never been in the army, thank heaven, but I can't help feeling the analogy has some mileage in it. Also, it helps you to feel a bit macho about the whole thing, which can have some benefits for morale.
Re poo: it's the way they get it all over their shoulders that you can't help wonder and admire.
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