Little Harry's House

June 23, 2010
RIPPED PYJAMA PANTS AND A CUP OF TEA
What a week; Harry has barely slept a peep, and consequently neither have I.

There is a feeling that comes from having an inconsolable screaming baby in the middle of the night; you begin to feel a little loopy. It feels as though the whole world is sleeping, and that sleep is a sweet drug you cannot afford.

Like a drug addict you begin to think crazy thoughts; your mind wanders to the lengths you'd venture to get your fix.

When you do go to bed you are expecting to be woken at any minute. The concept of falling asleep would be laughable if only you weren't so damn tired.

Your eyelids touch at the same moment baby whimpers creep into your consciousness. Like a beam of sunlight through the bedroom curtain, they mark the end of any dreams you'd hoped to have that night.

An unwashed quilt cover and three week old sheets never felt so soft and inviting against your cheek, Dan's snoring so soothing, nor the bed so warm.

You peel yourself away and prepare for a night of walking the dark cool lounge room floor in your ripped pink star pyjama pants and fluffy bunny slippers.

The next day when you're feeling broken and all used up, your savours appear.

Cake is dished out and tea is poured, a crying Harry is passed into well slept arms whilst yours settle down for a rest.

Once again you are reminded of how wrong you were about mother's groups, and you can't help but wonder how you ever survived before.

Thank you mummies!