I was idly scrolling through my phone the other day and came across the ramblings of a madwoman. Me. 6-months deep in new motherhood. Breastfeeding relentlessly and still getting up a minimum of 4-times nightly to soothe the babe back to sleep.
Things are very different now. It's spring. The sun is shining. Oh, and most importantly He Sleeps. We're in a good place now. So much so, I can't quite remember the mania of those dark fragmented sleepless stretches. Funny how the mind forgets (blocks out?) the pain. So I'm publishing this as a reminder of how far we've come. Oh, and for anyone else desperately seeking sleep I can't recommend the site Precious Little Sleep more highly. There's light at the end of the zombie tunnel. Promise. (But don't get me wrong. I'm still tired).
NB. The version on my phone had no punctuation. But it made me tired just reading it. So...
Tired. Tired from staying up too late. Tired from back to back early rises. Tired from knowing there's no countdown to the next lie in. Tired. From staggering bare-legged down a moonlit corridor to a wet-eyed boy turning in his crib. Tired of being tired. Of knowing that once you're up, it's actually ok. But god, what you would do not to have to get up. Tired of staring into the darkness trying desperately to stay awake. Of biting my lip. And shaking my head. And catching the nape of my neck on the headboard. Just to keep from sleep. Tired of the conflict – of being grateful and in love but of so bloody tired. Tired of having to justify. And explain. And just wanting to give up. Tired of trying to look good. And failing. Tired of staring in the mirror at spreading crows feet and wondering when I suddenly got so old. Too tired to pick outfits. Too tired to wash the same old jeans. Tired of never-ending laundry piles and washing machines telling me it's time to hang things out with that bastard beep beep beep it does. Tired of downing glass after glass of water and it making too little difference to a too tired face. Tired of being judged. Tired of caring about futile things. Tired of pretending to care. Tired of being diplomatic. And reasonable in the face of unreasonable faces. Tired of putting toys in baskets. And making piles. And scooping soggy cereal out of floorboard cracks. And baskets. And wiping surfaces. And repeat. Tired of nothing ever being done. Tired of catching buggy wheels on table legs. And wonky pavement slabs. Of skewering unsuspecting strangers on trains. Of picking up toys recently flung on public floors. Of looking cafe owners in the eye and seeing only disappointment. Tired of smiling instead of shouting. Tired of asking if it's ok. When we both know we're not welcome. Of apologising. For something that's probably not our fault. Tired of smiling and saying, "yeah he's good, w..." and being cut off by people asking how we are but never really listening to the reply. Tired of being accommodating. Tired of being expected to fit in. When naps and meal times do anything but. Tired of bending and no one bending back. Of shopping bags cutting lines in arms. And weighing down prams. And people wishing you'd get out the way. Tired of ill-designed rain covers. Of wrestling with nappies. And coats. With everything. All of the time. Of tiny socks being pulled from tiny feet. Tired of wanting time to stop so I can hold onto these moments. Tired. Of being tired.