I’m currently sitting on my bed looking like a very lifelike extra from ‘The Walking Dead’ because, for the last two weeks, Oz has decided to embark on a sustained campaign of REM sleep deprivation against his parents.
How do I put this nicely? Oz is being a complete asshole.
Apologies to the more sensitive readers, for the remainder of this post I will change the ‘A’ word to something less harsh in order to appease your gentle disposition. We’ll go with: darling.
Wanting him to sleep more – although obviously is for his own good – is also for very selfish reasons. I miss my evenings. I miss mindlessly scrolling through my phone while sitting on opposite ends of the sofa from my husband therefore qualifying as spending time together.
To say the lack of sleep has had an effect on our relationship is an understatement. Today, I threatened to drown him if he didn’t stop irritating me. Even by my standards that’s a pretty harsh threat – although he can tread water frig all so I don’t think it would be that hard. I’m getting off topic.
I don’t think we have shared a pleasant word with each other in weeks and my daydreams of running off to Dingle with Colin Firth are becoming very detailed.
Last night I sent out an SOS to friends and family with kids for advice and thankfully I had no smug replies of their angels, and how great they were at sleeping from the start. I got sympathy and although I was reading replies with heavy eyes they were appreciated.
This usually results in either of his parents being head-butted as he throws himself around the bed. Last night, it was my turn. I got a chubby body slam across my face and then he fell soundly asleep. I was so tired and my alarm for the gym was going off in 90 minutes so I just lay there being smothered by a butter ball in a onesie.
See how I managed to brag that I was going to the gym there? Shameless.
Anyway, after another day of being at each other’s throats and threats of drowning exchanged, we decided it was time to renew our conviction and stay true to the course.
Oscar has been moved out into his own room so Oliver can snore his happy little head off while the little DARLING can scream at us from his cot knowing that we are on the other side of the door lying on the hall floor, rocking in the fetal position.
He’s asleep, for now and dinner has been started for the grown ups at 9pm. This is not ok.
And do you think he cares? Let’s see shall we?