In the wee hours this morning I was brutally torn from my slumber by......The Calling....
"Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmm!"
I reach over to George Clooney's shirt and.......
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!"
rip it open....buttons fly across the room..............
"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"
Oh my God, my child is being murdered!!!
Awake now....."What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?"
(this better be good 'cause I probably won't be able to channel George when I go back to sleep).
"Bratley is being sick......." (no, that's not his real name - except at three o'clock in the morning).
"Oh gross. Muuuuum, Bratley is being sick ALL OVER THE BEDROOM!!"
I stumble into the lair whereThing 1 and Thing 2 nest and am promptly slapped in the face with the acrid odour of vomit. I switch on the light and then proceed to slip on masticated lamb chop and chocolate pudding. Poor kid tried to make it to the bathroom, but got as far as swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. It was a real Power Vomit. We're talking splash marks on four walls and the window blinds. I trapse into the kitchen to get the paper towel and an adequate vomit recepticle....leaving a trail of slimey germesticated vomitty footprints.
"It's ok baby," I coo, "You can't help being sick. Did you get it on your sheets?" (please god, not the sheets, I only changed them yesterday morning...nothing like having to change sheets at three in the morning with a shivery sick child forlornly watching.)
Sheets are clear, God bless the considerate invalid.
With lavender and eucalyptus oil liberally sprayed, mopped and high-pressure hosed throughout the room and Bratley proclaiming he felt "all better now" I shuffle back to bed to sleep. With one eye open and ear tuned to flea farts. George has vacated for the evening.
Perhaps he'll come back tomorrow.
Showing posts with label insomnia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insomnia. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
A Story of The Night
I spend an extraordinary amount of time staring at the ceiling - at two o'clock in the morning.
Falling over my eye bags every morning reminds me that this nocturnal activity is possibly not healthy. There appears to be no antecedent to this behaviour as even the street louts who like to drink cans of bourbon on my front fence are usually in bed by two, or have stumbled onto someone else's front lawn for a bit of shut-eye. The hoons in their lowered suped-up nitro-fuelled muscled-up penis substitutes have gone from doing circlework at the intersection outside to laying rubber on the highway, or smoking crack. The residual trash have taken their domestic disputes from the street to behind their trailer doors. So all is quiet. And yet, I'm awake, watching shadows ebb and flow across the ceiling rose.
I rise to check the children as I'm certain that my wakefullness must be because my sleeping children have been spirited away by kidnappers. Or perhaps one of them has stopped breathing. I must get some perverse kick out of frightening myself. Humphrey just thinks I'm weird.
All is well. Their room is quiet and close. They sleep, open-mouthed, with their limbs flung asunder and bedclothes hither and thither. I kiss their warm little faces and wonder if it is possible to infuse them with a sense of love and well-being with each dry little peck. I also become acutely aware that these precious little people are only mine for a short time and I don't want to miss a minute of their lives. This makes me want to cry. Instead I shuffle into the kitchen and flick on the kettle. My eyes scunch up in protest at the bright fluorescent lights. I look like Gollum's mother.
Stirring the decaf I wait for the computer to boot. At least ebay is awake at this hour of the morning. I check emails and half-heartedly spy on facebook. I shuffle back to my bed. One side of it remains unrumpled. I realise I am lonely, missing that great warm lump of Humphrey - who should be in my bed each night, but for reasons beyond our control is not. It could be worse, I say to myself. Yes, it could be much worse. I pick up my cheap supermarket reading glasses. One long-broken arm waggles uselessly, but I deftly flick it up over my ear. We have an understanding. I won't sit on them again, provided the arm doesn't completely separate from the rest of the frame. Settling back into a pile of pillows I smooth open a tattered page of David Copperfield. It has been read many times, but still the characters can be conjured into my bedroom - the dumpy, apple-cheeked Peggotty, ominous Murdstone and pathetic Clara whom I'd like to pummel with a steak tenderiser. It is 3am. Should I make school sandwiches or should I try to sleep? Perhaps I should go and clean behind the washing machine. Have been meaning to do that for some time. I decide instead to settle David Copperfield on the bedside table, switch off the light and roll over. I run my hands over the cool smooth sheets that should be warm with Humphrey....and wait for sleep.
Falling over my eye bags every morning reminds me that this nocturnal activity is possibly not healthy. There appears to be no antecedent to this behaviour as even the street louts who like to drink cans of bourbon on my front fence are usually in bed by two, or have stumbled onto someone else's front lawn for a bit of shut-eye. The hoons in their lowered suped-up nitro-fuelled muscled-up penis substitutes have gone from doing circlework at the intersection outside to laying rubber on the highway, or smoking crack. The residual trash have taken their domestic disputes from the street to behind their trailer doors. So all is quiet. And yet, I'm awake, watching shadows ebb and flow across the ceiling rose.
I rise to check the children as I'm certain that my wakefullness must be because my sleeping children have been spirited away by kidnappers. Or perhaps one of them has stopped breathing. I must get some perverse kick out of frightening myself. Humphrey just thinks I'm weird.
All is well. Their room is quiet and close. They sleep, open-mouthed, with their limbs flung asunder and bedclothes hither and thither. I kiss their warm little faces and wonder if it is possible to infuse them with a sense of love and well-being with each dry little peck. I also become acutely aware that these precious little people are only mine for a short time and I don't want to miss a minute of their lives. This makes me want to cry. Instead I shuffle into the kitchen and flick on the kettle. My eyes scunch up in protest at the bright fluorescent lights. I look like Gollum's mother.
Stirring the decaf I wait for the computer to boot. At least ebay is awake at this hour of the morning. I check emails and half-heartedly spy on facebook. I shuffle back to my bed. One side of it remains unrumpled. I realise I am lonely, missing that great warm lump of Humphrey - who should be in my bed each night, but for reasons beyond our control is not. It could be worse, I say to myself. Yes, it could be much worse. I pick up my cheap supermarket reading glasses. One long-broken arm waggles uselessly, but I deftly flick it up over my ear. We have an understanding. I won't sit on them again, provided the arm doesn't completely separate from the rest of the frame. Settling back into a pile of pillows I smooth open a tattered page of David Copperfield. It has been read many times, but still the characters can be conjured into my bedroom - the dumpy, apple-cheeked Peggotty, ominous Murdstone and pathetic Clara whom I'd like to pummel with a steak tenderiser. It is 3am. Should I make school sandwiches or should I try to sleep? Perhaps I should go and clean behind the washing machine. Have been meaning to do that for some time. I decide instead to settle David Copperfield on the bedside table, switch off the light and roll over. I run my hands over the cool smooth sheets that should be warm with Humphrey....and wait for sleep.
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