The clocks are due to go forward in most states. I know this, not because I am a farmer, but because our four-year-old son’s morning invasions of the parental bed have recently broken the 6am barrier.
I shouldn’t complain. He used to wake up as early as 11pm or 12am and jump into our bed — or, more often, call out for us. After terse debate over whose it turn it was this time, testy negotiations in the dark (“You go — I’ll let you lie-in on Sunday.” “Fat chance, it’s my turn for a lie-in on Sunday anyway — get moving!”), one of us would go to his room, where we’d find the boy, stricken with terror by some toy that was lurking on his shelf and throwing malevolent shadows across the wall.
Or at least pretending to be stricken, so we’d take him into our bed. Generally, we’d be too exhausted or wary of waking his sister to argue and he’d get his way. As thanks, I’d spend much of the ensuing night being jabbed in the testicles by an elbow or a knee.
He shook that habit six months or so ago, therefore we don’t begrudge him the dawn raids.
Bedtime. Time in bed. Sleep itself. This aspect of life, perhaps more than any other, gets crapped up when you become a parent.
You know it’s going to be rough, of course. When you’re expecting your first child, everyone helpfully advises you to get your sleep while you can, smirking at the prospect of your torment.
You’ll end up going for the odd 3am drive, wailing infant in the back, hoping a couple of turns around the block might do the trick, maniacally humming “hush little baby don’t you cry”.
The newborn is likely to be in your room for easy access to the relentless feeding sessions. Many of the wee, small hours will be spent “settling” your baby, rocking a bassinet back and forth while croaking a lullaby, pacing your bedroom with the baby slung over your shoulder, tenderly patting its back on every 15th step, say, while silently begging it, tears streaming down your drawn face, for the love of God, to just go back to sleep.
You’ll end up going for the odd 3am drive, wailing infant in the back, in the hope that a couple of turns around the block might do the trick, maniacally humming “hush little baby don’t you cry”, eyes wild with desperation in the rear-view mirror.
Unless you’re the kind of bastard whose baby “sleeps through” from day one.
Both of our children were light sleepers as babies, waking several times a night. “Controlled crying”, the current default system of sleep management that requires you to let your child cry, systematically reducing the amount of time you spend comforting them, never worked for us. We could never stick to the rules; they were too damn tiring.
I favoured the "sitting in the dark beside the cot" method, reassuring them I was there and then, after five or 10 minutes, very, very slowly getting up from my chair and very, very quietly and carefully creeping out of the room. Often, I’d get busted at the doorway, then tearful recriminations would ensue and I’d be back at square one.
By the time they were two, both of our children had devised lengthy and circuitous bedtime rituals, involving a negotiable number of stories, a non-negotiable sequence of songs (“Puff the Magic Dragon” was a favourite, the devastating lyric of which is emblazoned forever on my limbic system), numerous visits to the toilet (of questionable authenticity), plus an unspecified period of sitting with them in the dark — something they’d learned to expect from me in particular.
Before long, they’ll be teenagers and we won’t be bothered by their sleeping, but who they’re sleeping with.
Now they’re six and four, bedtime is something that’s gotten easier. We don’t have to sing anymore. Our daughter’s slept through since she was three (which seems like only yesterday), barring one or two frankly terrifying night terror incidents. During these, she’s inconsolable, eyes wide open, stricken with fear, stiff as a board but shaking all over, and screaming at some apparition to “stop it, PLEASE!” to just “get AWAY!”.
We’re talking a borderline excorcism-worthy performance. We’d eventually calm her down and she’d have forgotten it all by the morning.
Generally, though, we can catch a solid seven hours sleep these days. Now that the boy doesn’t come to us at night, some semblance of a sex life comeback for his mother and me could even be on the cards. The walls are paper-thin in this place, which could become an issue down the track.
Yes, time is moving fast. Before long, they’ll be teenagers and we won’t be bothered by their sleeping, but who they’re sleeping with. Come to think of it, we definitely have to do something about those walls.
No, we don’t begrudge our son jumping into our bed for a morning cuddle, even when it’s before 6am for another week. He clambers in between us, wraps himself around each of us in turn and tells us that he loves us. Just before he kicks me in the nuts.
The clocks will soon go forward. These are times we won’t get back.
