The Adventures of Baldie and Curly (ABC): I Love the Night Life

I am convinced my girls have started to gang up against me. Calla must have read the manual of "How to drive Mama crazy" that Poppy left in my womb when I gave birth to her. So I'm going to compile all these under a new segment and I'm calling it The Adventures of Baldie and Curly, or ABC. Enjoy.

This one's a little backdated cos it was just sitting around in my draft folder. Not much has changed though.

*****

Machine guns. 

I hear the sound of machine guns. 

It sounds too real to be part of a dream. I open my eyes and realize that the sounds had come from the direction of Baldie’s diaper. The sounds may have been harmless but the same cannot be said about the smell. It must have been highly toxic because my husband seems to have been knocked out cold by it. It’s late o’clock but Baldie is only 6 months old and can’t yet tell the time so she thinks it’s ok to wake me for a midnight snack. 

Breastfeeding is a wonderful, natural thing but honestly, a baby-sized straightjacket wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Why do babies insist on getting their limbs tangled up in their mum’s clothes? Yes, nursing wear has evolved but guess what? So have babies.

Baldie gets her fix and I get up to go to the bathroom. I’m gone less than 2 minutes. When I get back, I discover that Baldie has morphed into a starfish and has left a generous 2 inches of space for me to sprawl on. I finally fall back asleep while clinging on the side of the bed frame like a lizard, only to be rudely awoken by a foot in my neck.

Sleep finds me again quickly. But in my sub consciousness, I hear the door handle. It’s not the handle to the door of my room, but that should happen in 5…4….3…2..

“Mama?”

Curly.

“What.” I politely answer.

“I can’t find my water bottle.” A crisis, then.

“It’s right next to your bed where I left it.”

“Ok”.

2 doors open and close. Not quietly. I will myself to sleep because if I don’t, it’ll be morning too soon. The doors open again.

“Mama?”

“Yes?” My frown begins. I know where this is heading.

“I can’t reach it.”

At this point, I should explain something about 4 year-olds and their perception of length and depth. The distance from bed to foot of bed is longer than distance from bed to Mama’s bed in other room. It’s simple logic.

So I get up. We walk together to her room and I hand her the bottle.

“It’s empty, Mama.”

Note to self: Purchase water dispenser for Curly’s room. Meantime, fill bottle.

Curly drinks, asks for story, story denied, asks for company, company denied, agrees to sleep till sun is high up in sky. Goodnight, kiss kiss, bye bye.

I climb back into bed. Baldie is perpendicular to husband’s hip. I try to lie to complete the letter H while raising my hips so as not to flatten Baldie’s feet but that’s not very comfortable. So I risk it. I carry her and attempt to transfer her to the cot.

Isn't it funny – when we transfer a sleeping baby from bed to cot, we try to do it in stealth mode. But when they fall asleep in the baby carrier, we continue to rock them to keep them from waking. Oh the ironies of parenthood.

So into the cot she goes. She stirs. My heart stops. But she remains asleep. Husband’s still asleep so I give myself a mental high five. I must have slapped my own hand too hard in my mind because as soon as I’m in bed, I hear her soft cries.

I sigh a few times as loudly as I can but Husband remains undisturbed. I bring her back to bed and nurse her, all the while thinking “I’m doing it wrong, I’m doing it wrong. She shouldn’t be in our bed.” But I’m too tired to sit by the cot to pat her to sleep or wait till she’s drowsy in my arms then put her down. I also can’t let her cry it out because I don’t want her to wake her sister.

I’m not sure if she was breastfed at all because I fall asleep before her. Before I know it, it’s bright. Husband’s up and in his place is the pillow fortress. Baldie is hitting me gently on the chest signaling that she’s ready for breakfast, s’il vous plait. Curly barges into the room and yells, “Mama can you tell me a story?”.

“No, Curly. Mama is still sleeping.”

“But you’re talking to me! That means you are awake!” When did my 4 year-old become Miss Smartypants?

“My brain needs to rest.” She’d been learning about the parts of the body. Surely she would understand this.

“Ok, then don’t use your brain. Just use your mouth to tell me a story.”

I admit defeat.

“Once upon a time, there was a very tired Mama. The end.”


*****

Disclaimer: Names have been changed to protect the innocent.