I overheard a mum at the school gate the other day bemoaning the fact her whole family had overslept that morning and thus nearly been late for registration. So I killed her. Then urinated on her corpse.
Overslept? OVERSLEPT?! How dare someone with kids the same age as mine be able to sleep longer than they need to? To be gently roused by her own body because it’s sufficiently and blissfully recharged rather than abruptly elbowed, shoved or bellowed into the morning at a time that barely crosses the border between night and day.
Now, admittedly, things in our house aren’t as bad as they used to be. The odd sickness bug or bad dream aside, the days of 4am starts and the nights of constant wake-ups – the ones that leave you wondering if it’s safe to be getting behind the wheel of a car the next morning – are, thankfully, behind us.
But, still, the prospect of oversleeping remains about as likely as hearing the words “you look busy Daddy, what can I do to help?” or eating a family meal that doesn’t feature a blast radius.
Of course, as a parent, you get used to functioning with a fuggy brain and surviving on the bare minimum of sleep. I remember many occasions on my wife’s weekend lie-in day (the staple of any functioning relationship!) of walking the streets of London with my son Dylan in half-darkness looking for an open playground surrounded by people coming in rather than heading out.
It can be miserable but it’s also just how it is – and I’m not complaining. After all, we made the decision to have kids and anyone with half a brain goes into that experience fully recognising the likely impact it will have on their precious 8 hours a night.
But I didn’t expect it to last sooooooooooooo long. I thought by now, with kids aged 5 and 8, I’d at least be seeing the number 7 on the clock when the first sounds of movement occur. Maybe even 8 at the weekend.
After all, isn’t school supposed to tire kids out? But no. Like many of you reading this, every morning at home still invariably begins with a simple, painful and recurring thought: Seriously? Already?
Perhaps stupidly, my wife Laura and I have always steadfastly resisted trying to solve the problem by going to bed super-early, sharing the view that we would rather spend the evening relaxing together or seeing friends than live our life around some insane little sleep tyrant’s body clock.
Besides, on the few occasions I’ve tried that, it makes sod all difference anyway. No matter what time I tuck in, there’s something in the core of my constitution that makes me allergic to waking up before 7.30am.
Pre-kids, I used to set an alarm to get up in time for a Saturday morning yoga class at 11.00am. Fast forward to today and by then I’m mainlining caffeine and getting hungry for lunch. Unless it’s my lie-in day of course, in which case by 11am Laura has done a hefty solo morning shift and is thus standing over me like an American customs officer while I eat breakfast, ready to hand over the kids the very moment I swallow my last Rice Krispie.
Worse, based on what I hear from parents with older children, by the time they finally are sleeping in, your own knackered brain is so accustomed to being bludgeoned into consciousness at the crack of dawn that you find yourself waking up anyway! I mean, how cruel is that?! Although not as cruel as what I’m planning for my own teenage sleeping beauties should that happen to me.
Maybe you’re a morning person reading this. In which case: you probably think I’m whinging about nothing. Maybe you’re like me and depressingly resigned to starting each day in a near-permanent state of unreadiness. In which case: I feel your pain and send my best wishes.
Or maybe you’re one of that rare breed of parent with kids aged less than 10 who may sometimes sleep more than they’re meant to. The ones who still get to doze (remember that?). Who come around gently every now and then. Or who might conceivably be late for school because they were in bed too long rather than because someone took 20 minutes TO PUT THEIR BLOODY SHOES ON!!!
In which case: lucky you. Now, damn well keep it to yourself.
thedaddanceblog 