There have been a few dark days in the trenches here at TrailerLand. Small Z has been waking in excess of five times a night. Only for ten or fifteen minutes at time, but that’s enough to send my sanity rocketing down the scale from ten to about five or six. This is coupled with occasional daytime nap battles. I will not let her ‘cry it out’. She will not get to sleep without being rocked or walked. This scenario is so common in new parents that it’s just BORING. I feel that I am part of a big fat predictable cycle…that I’m having trouble shaking. I have been thinking longingly of our only-woke-three-times night in the caravan at Binginwarri…
Oh – but this is NOT a request for advice. It really isn’t. I am drowning in the stuff. I have both my parents suggesting I go to sleep school with Small Z, because whenever they see me I have eyebags to my knees. And my knees…well, put it this way; my mother insists on asking me once a week “Are you eating properly? You’re so thin!” Yeah. Not becomingly slender, or sylphlike. Just kind of trailer-trash-smoked-too-many-ciggies-overdid-the-bootscootin’-and-amphetamines kind of knobbly. Just call me Bobbie-Sue, pass me the Coolabah cask and tell those kids to quit messin’ with my shotgun in case they break it.
I have chatted to Koo Wee Rup sleep school – my health care nurse said they were flexible and accommodating – actually, they were neither. I have chatted to Queen Elizabeth Sleep School, who were far more affable, helpful and made me feel like a human instead of a neurotic loser. They slotted me in for a phone consultation in two weeks time (I’d had one scheduled for yesterday, but had cancelled it on a rogue wave of what some people might call optimism, but I now label general idiocy).
Meanwhile, it is very hard to be unaware of The Importance of Sleep at the Trailer. I have mentioned before that we are perfecting either cooking in the afternoon, or cooking in silence after about 6pm when Small Z slumbers. Anyone watching M and I would be hugely entertained, as our evenings are largely conducted in mime. M is handicapped in the whole affair by his Rather Large Feet.
He sidles around the baby-quiet trailer like a tiptoeing giant, but inevitably stumbles over a rattle, trips on bit of firewood or loads a website that honks. He then looks utterly anguished and clutches at himself like Basil Fawlty. Whenever we both are walking around at the same time, it’s like playing a game of Twister. He stands poised, about to step over the baby playgym, while I snake around to his left, trying not to bump the plates that are in front of the fire while avoiding his glass of consoling red wine helpfully positioned right near the kitchen doorway.
All those nine months of growing a PartyPie, I never realised about the SOUND issue in a non-insulated Trailer. I worried about the heat. I worried about the cold. What I really should have been doing was digging a cave down beneath the towbar that was deep enough so that we could watch something loud and obnoxious (if we felt like it), so that I could emote through some cranky distorted guitar playing (if I felt like it) and so that when we had made it through another week intact, we could laugh hysterically and clank our glasses together… at least every Friday night.