Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (22 page)

Usually, it’s very easy to pull my car into the space, leaving an adequate distance between bumper and wall.

Not today though…

From where I sit, hands clenched on the steering wheel and brow creased, the idea of completing this simple task, that I’ve easily managed hundreds of times before, seems totally beyond me.

I edge the car forward as slowly as possible, and for a moment I think I’ve done a good job. The car is in its space and all is well.

Except when I get out of the car I discover that there’s actually a good three feet between bumper and wall, with the arse end sticking out so far into the lane it would be impossible for anyone to get past.

It takes me a few seconds to digest this. How could I have parked so badly?

I get back in and gingerly start to move the car forward again, slowly moving closer to the wall and –

SMASH!!

What I thought was ‘gingerly’ in fact turns out to be ‘far too fucking fast, you moron’.

The Mondeo comes to an immediate halt with a crunch, and my head jerks forward painfully.

Then the airbag goes off, punching me in the face just as I’ve come to terms with my new whiplash.

‘Ohhfurglebassacunn!’ I muffle into the airbag before it deflates.

I put a hand up to what is now a lovely new nose bleed and try to staunch the flow.

Luckily, there are some tissues in the glove box and I roll a couple up, sticking them up my nostrils to prevent the blood escaping, while I get out and survey the damage to the car.

It sounded worse than it actually was, thank goodness.

While there will be an expensive trip to the garage to fix the bumper and replace the airbag, the grill, lights and front of the car have escaped relatively unscathed. This is good, as I’m running pretty low on money right now thanks to Poopy’s never ending demand for nappies.

Picture the scene in your head, if you will: Jamie Newman, standing by his crumpled car, hair in a messy thatch, suit creased to high heaven, shirt un-tucked, shoes unpolished, face of haggard aspect thanks to no sleep, and two long strands of man sized tissue emanating from each nostril – both going a healthy shade of red from the top down.

Now I have a multiple choice question for you:

Who do you think appears on the scene right at this moment to confront Newman in his current state?

A) Janice, the friendly car park attendant, who is always nice to Newman every time he sees her, and is able to render much needed assistance and sympathy at this trying time?

B) Pete, a passing paramedic, who - by massive co-incidence - is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render much needed assistance and sympathy at this trying time?

C) Megan Fox, who – by
unbelievable
co-incidence – is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render much needed assistance, sympathy and a sloppy, teeth rattling blow job at this trying time?

D) David Keene, owner and CEO of the newspaper, who - by incredibly unlucky co-incidence – is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render a completely unneeded dressing down in the middle of the car park to one of his employees - who’s had a car crash, no sleep for a week and a throbbing headache thanks to the deployed airbag.

Those of you who have been reading this blog for some time will have automatically – and correctly – dismissed the first three choices as being the kinds of thing that only happen to other, more fortunate people.

‘Good morning Mr Keene,’ I say from behind my man-sized tissue tusks when he’s finally stopped berating me for looking so scruffy.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Newman?’

My brain, already taxed to its limits by exhaustion, simply cannot conjure up a feasible excuse for this sorry scene, so I just stand there and make fish faces at Keene for a few seconds.

‘Why have you got that stuff stuck up your nose?’ he asks.

I struggle to think of the answer. ‘I… I didn’t get that much sleep last night, sir.’ I tell him, completely out of context.

‘Really? Is that because you kept jamming things up your nose?’

‘What? Er… no, sir.
My baby.’

‘Your
baby
kept jamming things up your nose?’

‘No, no. I’m just… very,
very
tired Mr Keene.’

I look a pathetic sight and no mistake.

Even David Keene, a man known for his cut-throat business practises and hard-nosed approach to every problem he encounters, can’t stay angry at me. It would be like kicking a three-legged puppy with weepy eyes.

Keene’s face softens and he puts a hand on my arm. ‘It’s alright Newman. I was a new father once as well. Is the little one keeping you up much?’

‘Yes. She screams all the time at night. It’s like living with an insomniac banshee.’

Keene nods sympathetically. ‘Are you okay to work today, my boy?’

My bottom lip trembles. I’m a fully grown career professional, with an extensive client portfolio - and I’m about to start crying in front of my boss’s boss. ‘I think so, sir. I just need some coffee and an aspirin.’

Keene rifles in his pocket and produces a blister pack. ‘Here’s some Nurofen. I can’t help with the coffee, but the machine’s working in the foyer.’

I take the gift of painkillers with heartfelt gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not a problem.’

Keene starts to walk away, back in the direction of his own car.

‘Mr Keene?’ I call to him and he turns back. ‘Does it get any easier? Bringing up kids I mean?’

He responds with a snort of laughter. ‘
Easier
? Trust me Newman, this
is
the easy part. You just wait until the little bastard starts moving around under its own steam. That’s when your problems really begin!’ He chuckles again and turns away for the final time.

I am left with the secure knowledge that I’m going to have to kill myself.

Poopy’s reign of terror is only just beginning…

Here’s a tip if you’re planning on having children any time in the near future: sleep as much as possible. Whenever and wherever you can.

Luxuriate in your bed. Have enormous, satisfying lie-ins. If you think you’ve slept too much, just roll over for another half an hour and pull the covers over your head.

Believe
me,
these pleasant memories will keep you going at three in the morning, when you’re standing butt-naked in the front room with a baby in your arms, rocking her gently to stop her screaming the house down.

Laura’s Diary

Thursday, June 5th

Dear Mum,

Believe it or not, it’s actually possible to see the inside of your own eyelids.

…no, it really is.

All you need to do is give birth to a baby that never sleeps for more than thirty eight seconds at a time and spend six months in her company.

I can close my eyes now and see patterns swirling in the darkness. It’s quite hypnotic.

A lot of people say that when you’re deprived of sleep over a long period of time it can lead to hallucinations. I can’t say I’ve experienced this as yet.

I even said as much to my new friend Barnabus the purple troll, who lives in the cupboard under the sink and drinks the Cillit Bang.

After Jamie’s little accident at work I started to take on more of the nightly feeds. I felt it a better idea for me to walk around like one of the undead instead of him, considering I don’t have to sit at a computer monitor all day to earn money. I get my maternity pay whether I’m awake or fast asleep, so it seemed the logical solution.

This of course makes me a complete
idiot
.

I went from being able to function quite well on approximately six hours sleep to malfunctioning like a submerged toaster on three.

Then Poppy started teething.

It’s quite amazing how you can think a baby has reached the absolute limits of her abilities to drive you insane – but can then ramp it up an entire other level thanks to the emergence of teeth.

I am quite sure my daughter is going to grow up to sing in a heavy metal band.

I believe this partly due to her father’s horrific taste in music, and partly due to the fact that when she screams it sounds like the gates of Hell have opened in the next room.

I looked out of the window the other day to see a whole flock of starlings crash land on the garden in a collective fit. The gargantuan sound waves coming from Poppy had scrambled their poor bird brains with disastrous consequences.

There must be ways of making money off my daughter’s inhuman decibel levels, but I’m way too tired to think of any right now.

My common sense has gone out of the window thanks to the lack of rest and effective ear plugs. So much so, I made a dreadful mistake on Tuesday – and inadvertently stumbled on to something quite, quite horrific.

It was about ten thirty in the morning and I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the thirty eight seconds Poppy had dropped off for.

I’m still not used to this lifestyle.

Everyone I know is out at work. I have no idea what to do with myself when not dealing with my incandescently angry daughter.

I could watch some television, but the only thing on at this time of day is the kind of programming reserved for the mentally retarded. The only other choice I have is the news, which is too depressing to contemplate.

My only recourse of action is to snatch a few moments of sleep here and there. This would work out fine were it not for the fact that Poppy is psychic.

As soon as I slip into a temporary dreamless slumber, she’s awake and bawling the house down again with her aching gums.

Such is the case on Tuesday, when I snap awake to the sound of my daughter screaming the house down, spilling coffee on my pyjamas.

I stumble upstairs to the bedroom and pick Poppy up, wincing as she delivers an eardrum splitting shriek right at my face.

I start to massage her gums in the hope it might cool her down a bit, but with no luck. Then I try the teething gel I’d bought from the chemist.

This doesn’t seem to have any appreciable effect either. If anything, having a gob full of nasty tasting gel makes Poppy even angrier – and therefore even louder.

My only other choice at this point is to just rock her and hope she cries herself out.

Ha!

Fat chance.

Nearly an hour later she’s still going for it in a big way. I now think that as well as a heavy metal singer, Poppy will also be a long distance marathon runner, given her seemingly inexhaustible supplies of energy.