Much like potty training and weaning, sleep (or lack of) is the post that every blogger has a crack at. Why? Because sleep deprivation is a fucking toad and to write about it is to get catharsis for the hideous impact it has.
I’m not even greedy, you know? Six hours a night would genuinely be fine. The key (are you reading this Moo? THIS IS THE KEY!) is that I need those six hours to be unbroken. Uninterrupted. I feel a bit spent now, nine months in, being woken up at any point between 2am and 5am to flop a tit out and try not to doze off at the wheel, as it were. There’s no routine to it – some nights, it’s 2.01am for a 40 minute feed. Other nights, we get to 5am and she wants a quick ten minutes. Maybe once a month, she’ll sleep through, and I wake up with one deflated balloon and one concrete boulder on my chest.
Way back, way way back, I thought I was alright with it. I was so shit hot at daytime organisation and efficiency, that I thought I’d trained myself to function on the mish mash of nighttime wakenings. It was just something that happened, a night feed, having my REM tipped upside down. I was cool with it.
But. I can’t remember the last time I’ve woken in the morning and been able to remember what I dreamed about. Every dawn I feel slightly hungover, unable to extract myself from my fluffy bed until absolutely necessary. I never used to feel like this – I used to bounce up and out at 5.45am and beast the hell on with my day like Wall-E.
I really, really bloody hope that in the next few months, Moo masters sleeping through, and I start to get my shit back together. In the meantime, though, here’s a slightly oddball list of the things I’ve done when driven to distraction by lack of slumber. Please feel free to cock your head to one side in a sympathetic fashion, offer soothing words, or send a Twix.
When I’m hanging out the washing, I’ll separate out pairs of socks, matching jim jam sets etc, because I humanise the garments and think that maybe they fancy a bit of a break from each other. They’re paired up ALL DAY, right? Don’t we all like a bit of freedom from time to time? So, pink stripey sock will go and hang out with green spotty sock for a while. Sleepysaurus pyjama top will sashay up to my “work it out harder” emblazoned gym leggings for a gossip. Then…a while later, I’ll feel bad that I’ve separated soulmates, and I’ll actually reunite the clothes with their rightful bedfellows. I’ll stand by the drying rack and channel the late, great Cilla in that programme that isn’t Surprise, Surprise, AKA The Other One She Did.
I often find myself wondering what “ordinary” celebrities are up to at any given moment. I don’t mean anyone mid-profile like Cat Deeley (god love her), I mean your more mainstream, accessible personality. Like Michaela Strachan. Where does she do her weekly shop? Does she ever go to Matalan to buy scatter cushions? Does she have bunions? While I’m sat here, typing this, what’s she doing? I bet she’s asleep. Heathen.
In sadder times, I’ve been known to mentally take myself off into the depths of my freezer drawer, and tot up the contents. I know I’ve seen three tubs of leftovers, but WHAT’S IN THEM? I’m betting a stir fry, a bolognese, and a wildcard. Oooh, wildcard meal. If it’s red, I can bung some cheese on it. Please don’t let it be rice. I always freeze leftover rice then get struck by the fear that never, ever should you reheat rice because of food poisoning. I do, dear reader. I nuke that rice and hope for the best.
Free Every Pea
Or baked bean. I’ll explain. You know I humanise clothes? I also humanise bits of food. I cannot leave one solitary baked bean, pulse, legume or pea in its can or packet because it’s a bit fiddly to get out. What if I throw away the packet, or wash the can out, and the lone foodstuff feels sad and abandoned? What if I’ve just separated it from a dear relative or friend? I know in theory it’ll all go the same way – back into the earth via organic, er, waste production. But I can’t be that person to break up true love. I’ll scrape the bottom of that can with my fingernails, if I have to.
Oh, nothing gives me greater sadistic joy than a really good old worry, manifesting in my complete lack of coherency. In the morning, I worry about everything I have to do that day. By lunchtime, I’ve started to worry about a nominal eventuality that may or may not take place next week / month / year. Mid-PM I treat myself to a coffee and all is good with the world. Then early evening strikes and my worries for the next day unfold. Bedtime comes and goes and sees me harness a welcome burst of enthusiasm, pep even, as I slob on the sofa watching South Today at 10.35pm. Then exhaustion taps me on the shoulder and I’m rewarded with perhaps two or three hours of sleep before madam awakes from her slumber for a quick refreshment. If I focus very hard, I can abate the night time worries, else I’d never get back to sodding sleep.
I’m not alone in such behaviour, am I?! This will all stop when I get back to the halcyon full night of Z’s, yes?
-SJW November 2016