I’ve no good process established for writing on weekend mornings yet. First of all, we (nearly intentionally) waste hours in the morning clinging to the dead notion of a lie in. It doesn’t happen properly because we’re woken by the wretches (children and dogs both) regardless, and yet we cling to each snatched 5 minutes between wakenings as if they’re actually making a difference to the levels of exhaustion we’ll experience for the rest of the day.
Spoiler, self: it never ever works. I might as well just bite the bullet at get up at whatever godawful hour they’ve risen at and then steal a nap later in the day to make up for it.
I feel like a cranky whiny selfish grasping covetous harridan when it comes to sleep at the moment. Like my sleep is the only one that’s getting disturbed. Like I’ve got some deeper birthright to it than anyone else in the house. Maybe even on the planet.
I know, I know, I’m really tired. Like all the time. Like unnaturally so. Like I’ve said it a lot. We all know; we’re sick of hearing it. But c’mon self – you’re signed off work now and you do actually have the opportunity to catch it up. So suck up the broken nights a bit better and maybe let G. get the hours in during the brief spell he actually spends in bed.
Myself and G. are on totally different bed schedules and I feel a real empathy gap when I consider his rest because I’m not really considering it from an accurate viewpoint. Like, I’ll go to sleep usually between 10 and 11. He’s at least two hours behind me on that, and yet I still feel aggrieved when he’s a morning slug-a-bed because in my selfish mind “We’re all tired in the morning, so just get up FFS. And get. off. fucking. twitter. because it’s not making you any more rested anyway!”
I say it with my inside-my-head voice, but now I guess I’ve used a kind of outside voice about it. But really, it’s to point out how unreasonable I am, not to passive-aggressively challenge his sleeping habits.
I guess it would be easier for me if he’d come to bed at the same time as me because then I’d be comparing like with like, but it shouldn’t be such a stretch to +=2 onto whatever sleep I need on a given night.
I suppose it’s because I’m feeling so tired and grumpy myself? It’s not in anyway reasonable or trying to excuse it. And I know my inner reaction is wrong. So, yeah. That’s kind of what I’m trying to do here a little bit – challenge that perception and pull myself up on it. I’d like to stop thinking that way even if I never say it out loud.
As for twitter addiction, I’ve my own equivalents on which I spend altogether too much time.
Plus. I’m not working right now. I have no excuse. Zero. Everyone should be judging my slug-a-bed nature. But pregnancy is kind of a sacred space and you get away with being a bit of an asshole a lot of the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty miserable and it can feel lonely and relentless, but still. A bit of an asshole.
I’m starting to feel a tiny bit of trust that it might actually work out. That we might, in about four months time, have another child in our lives. How cool would that be?! But accepting it terrifies me. I feel like I need to do some ritual spitting and turning and chanting to offset the terrible fate my soaring hubris has no doubt called down on me.
It’s amazing the comfort that can be found in superstition. It makes me wish I was religious occasionally. I mean, wouldn’t it be really nice to be able to pray about this and kind of go “job done, baby protected” for the day. And also there’s a whole system for rationalising and accepting things when they don’t work out too.
There are so many valid, life-improving reasons for subscribing to a faith, actually. Not least of which is Pascal’s Wager, but the catch is that you can’t just do it. It has to be true faith or you get none of the benefits. And that’s something you can’t just decide into your life.
Anyway, I suppose I’ve my own system of faith to rely on an be comforted by. I put some faith into writing here on as regular a basis as possible to sort out my tangled brain. I think it works. Maybe that’s enough.