Daggers at dawn

Babe woke at 5.13 this morning. And at just after midnight, 1.11am, 1.23am, 1.46am, 3.24am, etc etc. As we didn't get him down until 10pm last night I knew the 5.13 screaming was because he was exhausted and pissed off at being awake so early. Which made two of us.

I didn't know what to do with the little mite, feeling closer than I have been yet to pulverising him. I haven't had an unbroken night for going on for a month and I swear he's out to break me. Why? I'm his loving mother! So, I bring him into bed with me. More back-writhing and screams. His milk is ready, cooled, on the windowsill (it's not going to curdle overnight in the Uk in May, is it?)(actually his milk did curdle during a brief hot interlude a couple of weeks ago and I didn't notice 'til he was half-way through it - oops) so I put it into his little hands. A nano-second of contentment was swiftly followed by more screams, and my mummy-radar detected the desire for milk that had been warmed.

I open the bedroom door and yell onto the landing,
'The little ba**ard wants warm milk and if he doesn't get it in five I'm going to kill myself.'
Other Half emerges from the spare room, zombie-like, and makes his way downstairs at a reasonable pace for the time of day.

Meantime, Babe points, screaming, at the TV I now keep on the farside bedside table.
'Mine! Rahhhhhhhh.'
CBeebies doesn't start until 6am.
'Not, now, it isn't, sweetheart.'
'RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!'.

Other Half returns with the milk, which he hands to me gingerly through the door, which is ajar. He then retreats. Twenty minutes left until his alarm clock goes off. He starts work at seven, and sits in a vibrating excavator for eleven hours with two 30min breaks per day.

The warm milk has done the trick. Babe lies against the pillow, guzzling, while I frown into my eyelids, wondering for the umpteenth time where I've gone wrong.

Half-way through he runs his soft little index finger across my bare shoulder and removes the bottle from his mouth. 'Mummy,' he smiles. I am filled with joy and know that actually, I haven't gone wrong at all. Well, not recently anyway.

Then he stabs me so hard in the iris that I gasp in pain.
'Eye.'

When Other Half returned from work this evening I asked for thirty seconds of his time.
He looked at me and sat down.
'We need to get this sleep thing sorted,' I say. 'From tonight, we agree a bed time and he can scream as much as he likes, but he goes when we say he does.'
'I agree with you,' he responds. Right answer. And we play games, just like a happy family, look at flash cards, get our little chicken washed and ready for bed. Then it's milk time and Bed Time. My heart starts to beat faster. But twenty-five minutes of screaming later, it has worked. Babe is asleep.

I go into the kitchen and wearily attack a bag of mini mars bars. Other Half comes in. I look at him in what I think is my "Little (well, ok, medium) women needs big (well, ok, medium) man to look after her" expression.
'I need a hug,' I say.
'And I need a shag,' he tartly responds. 'But am I going to get one?'
I'm not sure what my face says, but he picks up his gym bag and walks out of the front door.

New Year's Resolutions

Well, New Week's Resolutions, actually: several readers (possibly all of them) have asked why my blog died such a fast and sudden death. Good question. Well, stupid question really - I'm a working mum who lives with a man, for crying out loud, which doesn't leave time for applying deodorant, let alone written contemplation - but it has given me cause for thought. I must find a way of re-building the person I always thought I was. I must find myself. I must seek a more productive way of letting off steam than turning the air blue and worrying our neighbours. So here it is. I commit to updating this blog twice-weekly for the forseeable future. And now I'm going to watch the second round of Britain's Got Talent. Anything, anything at all, to kurb the onslaught of hugely intelligent and important thoughts that pursue me night and day...

PS On the subject of blue air, Babe has said 'sh*t' about ten times now. And in context, so there's no mistaking it. The first occassion was about a week ago when he rolled off my bed, ran around the side and richoched into a chair. Things must change.