I am quietly convinced that I will never, ever, ever again get a good night’s sleep. This is why.
My beautiful baby boy is good at many things. Looking cute. Making faces. Making me smile. Blowing raspberries. Eating. But it took a while for him to understand sleep. No doubt mostly my fault.
We only recently cracked sleeping through. After I cracked and then my husband cracked and then we committed to controlled crying. So called because one parent physically controls the other from going in and comforting their sobbing child. Eventually we learned that the best way to settle baby E was to go in as soon as he started to grizzle and firmly say “We love you. You are safe. Go to sleep”. Of course it took a few unsettled nights to make this discovery. But eventually, after about a week, baby E had his first night of solid sleep in 16 months.
I, unfortunately, did not.
My body, so used to getting up every few hours, wouldn’t quit. On the night I finally eased myself into pure, blissful sleep, we had possums in the roof. The possums I can handle. Our dog, barking at decibels surprisingly loud for his size and threatening to wake the baby, I cannot. In my 3am fury, I had committed to buying a bark collar the very next morning. By 3:30am the dog had settled and was snoring. The husband was snoring. I was convinced that I would never sleep again.
I believe one night of peaceful sleep followed, as long as you count getting up at 4:30am as peaceful.
Then we had the night of the “big storm”, when hail the size of golf balls pelted Brisbane and its surrounds. Hell hath no fury like a summer storm. With baby E clinging to me and Master I terrified, I checked that the windows were closed. The storm had unleashed its intensity so quickly I didn’t have a chance to check before the hail struck. Upon opening my bedroom door, I saw hail flying through a cracked window and hitting the wall on the other side. I quickly shut the door and ushered the boys into the middle of the house. Nothing to see here boys. In the aftermath of the storm we discovered that the ensuite window had also fallen victim to the hail. As had the alarm clock that once rested on the window sill. I cleaned up the glass and broken clock, remnants and shards going into the kitchen bin.
Once the excitement died down, the boys were utterly exhausted, as was I. Surely a great nights sleep would follow? Notwithstanding broken windows temporarily covered with garbage bags which were rustling in the wind. Sure enough, the boys slept soundly.
At 12am an alarm sounded. A constant blaring beep beep beep. It was unfamiliar. Bleary eyed and annoyed, I woke and followed the noise. Smoke alarm? I thought. No it was coming from the kitchen. The bloody broken alarm clock had somehow set itself (to midnight no less) during its demise. I fished the offending item out of the bin and tried to figure out how to turn the damn thing off when all knobs and buttons were broken. Eventually, I pried the battery out of the back with one of baby E’s spoons – the nearest implement at the time.
Finally silence. Finally sleep. Maybe. The universe don’t seem to be in favour.