Incy Wincy

I wish my bladder would respect my bedtime.

Not long ago- and not for the first time- there I was, middle of winter in the middle of the night, facing a big and hairy scary thing when I should have been snug as a bug in bed.

I was under the false apprehension that creepy crawlies had gone into hibernation for the wintertime.  And since it had been a mighty cold winter, I, like other ophidiophobes (and arachnophobes) was feeling relatively confident that we wouldn't be crossing paths anytime soon.

My mistake.

On a regular trip to the wheelie bin with some household waste I encountered an eerie little 8 legged critter residing right under the lid I lifted. And despite the chill in the air, and the aforementioned myth that the larger species of snakes and spiders go to sleep in the winter, 

I can assure you, Incy Wincy it wasn't!

I don't know who was more startled- or indeed who moved faster- Mr Hairylegs or me. Might've been a dead heat, actually. Moving in opposite directions, of course.

So you can appreciate my reaction on a night-time trip to the toilet not long afterwards.

I don't know about you but when nature calls in the night, I try not to wake anyone else. I crawl out of bed, tiptoe around to the ensuite bathroom, and ever so quietly slide the door open and shut, lift the lid and go about my business. I even installed a phosphorescent toilet seat so I can be guided by the glow to where I need to go. Saves turning on the light. Saves a bit of my power bill.

There is a downside to this, as I have previously discovered.

My Beloved, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Throws the covers off, rolls out of bed, slams open the sliding door, slams it shut again, flings up the toilet seat, and goes about his business. Then slams everything shut again and bounces back into bed; almost bouncing me out the other side (note to self: we REALLY need a new mattress).

After recent events I won't be quite so diligent.

Usual story, I am rudely awakened from unconscious bliss by my bladder, but being chilly I chuck on my slippers before hitting the tiles. I head into the bathroom when I spy out of the corner of my still half-asleep eyes, a dark fuzzy shape on the floor by the bowl. So, slipper in hand, I most valiantly and enthusiastically kill....my hair elastic.

Yep I well and truly whacked the crap out of a hair band that had in fact fallen out of my hair en route to the loo in the dark. But I am proud to report not a single squeak came from my mouth during the entire episode (thankfully, none of my other body parts betrayed themselves either).

Not that it matters, as my Beloved has been known to sleep through thunderstorms, phone calls, fire alarms, one time he even slept soundly as a neighbour banged on the window right above his head!  And how many times did he wake refreshed in the morning after I'd been up all night with a crying baby. Must be part of the Y chromosome, as it's a skill set most fathers seem to possess (leaving most mothers saying: "Why?!")

It's just as well I am not one of those helpless females who need their white knight to ride to her rescue when it comes to creepy crawlies. Or anything that goes bump in the night, for that matter. Many a time I have ventured forth from the bedroom to investigate a mysterious sound without  a man to hide behind. In fact my man is behind in bed, no doubt being all brave and manly in dreamland!

Yes, yes, I know the number one rule of horror films: don't go out there alone. But sometimes you don't have the choice (and happy to say most times, there isn't any bogeyman waiting in the wings).

Spiders, though, that's another story.

I've often encountered the little critters on their night-time hunting, while I do the protector thing and check on my children.  I even keep a can of spray handy for times I need to defend life and limb as quietly as possible (after all, this is Australia, home to some of the world's most poisonous species).

But I've never had to kill a hair band before.

Chance are, I never will again.

Jx

©2012

Back chat

I’ve just spent the better part of 4 days flat on my back in bed.

And not for any fun reasons either (none of the ol’ nudge nudge wink wink going on here, I can assure you).

Nosiree, the culprit of my current bed-a-thon is the shower in our ensuite.

See, my Beloved and I decided our joint New Year’s resolution was to finally finish off the plethora of renovation jobs on the boil in our home (OK, I decided, my Beloved begrudgingly agreed- only after the wardrobe fell apart in his hands whilst moving kids’ bedrooms around).

So I arranged for a “no-obligation measure & quote” from a local company that does the lot- kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms. Unfortunately, the only time the sales rep had available in the foreseeable future was 8am last Wednesday, which meant I had to get up at some ungodly hour of the school holidays, and do a quick tidy up in the relevant rooms.

After preparing and putting away the breakfast items in near-record time (if you have kids you know how long that can actually take), I made the fatal decision to give the showers a quick scrub before the fellow came in with his tape measure (didn’t want to leave any telltale soap scum or rogue body hairs, if you know what I mean). So I squat down in the shower with spray and brush and set to work. Since I have a pre-existing back condition (slipped and bulging discs, bilateral pars defect, sciatica, nothing too outrageous) I was taking proper precautions, using a long handled brush and not staying in one position too long. Apparently I wasn’t conscientious enough as my back kept grumbling about the activities long after I’d finished.

I survived a play-date at Maccas through a haze of pain, before returning home with barely enough time to restock the kids, pack the swimming bag, and head for lessons at the local pool (for more on that particular excitement, see ‘Sink or Swim’). Still struck by some foolish urge to clean house, I was merrily (if not stiffly) hunkered down in front of the front loader when my back seized with an ungodly pain, and I froze in position half-up/half-down. Calling for the kids to get daddy to help me, I was in too much pain to even laugh at the way they both barreled into the bedroom shrieking “Daddy, daddy, mummy’s stuck! HELP!!”

My bleary-eyed Beloved staggered into the laundry which is so small one can’t turn around in it at the best of times, and did his best to drag me upright, helping me across the hall to the bed where he all but dumped me. Well, I was so incapacitated I couldn’t even remove my shoes, let alone reach for the trusty painkillers on the bedside table. So while he managed to get the kids off to their 30 minute lesson (albeit 15 minutes late) I lay on the bed dreaming of pain relief.

Thankfully he didn’t have to work that night, and next morning was in charge of the children while I still lay in bed and moaned (obviously, I need to find me some stronger painkillers). Unfortunately, nature called, as it generally does after the bladder brews away all night long, but when I attempted to sit up to get up, I was overcome with the instant and intense urge to vomit. Deciding I’d rather do so in private, I somehow managed to roll and crawl across the bed and into the bathroom (with my Beloved hovering concernedly nearby). I then experienced perhaps the most terrifying few minutes of my life.

If the waves of pain and nausea weren’t enough to contend with, I then started that shivery sweaty stuff you sometimes get- and my vision blurred then went black. Lucky I was sitting down because I couldn’t see a damn thing. I even had to put my hands to my eyes to make sure they were open! I had literally ‘blacked out’. Now if you’ve ever experienced this, you’ll have some idea of how I felt. And if like me, you are prone to the occasional panic attack, you’ll know just how much worse the sweating and shaking got! I was literally dripping with perspiration. Not that I could see it at the time.

Now, I have given birth to two decent-sized children- without epidural- but I have NEVER felt the kind of pain radiating up and down my back.

So I spent the next 3 days either flat out or sitting propped up on pillows, trying not to go any further insane.

And now there’s Vegemite on my foot.

If you must know, my Beloved had to work last night and I dropped the lid whilst making toast this morning. Since I can’t bend over I attempted to pick up the lid with my foot. Obviously my lower digits are not as dexterous as I would like, and all I managed to do was to flip the thing over, smearing the black stuff across the tops of my toes.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

So I’ve decided to leave the housecleaning caper to Cinderella et al for the time being. But since my fairy godmother is also taking extended leave, meanwhile the washing’s piling up, there’re dirty dishes in the sink, we’re running out of everything, and my To-Do List is so not getting Done.

What’s that old saying: you know you’re getting old when you back goes out more than you do… all I can say is Hellllooooo Old Age!

Jx
©2010

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I’m an insomniac from way back.

Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.

But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.

It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).

And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.

It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.

I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.

My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.

So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.

But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.

On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.

Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.

I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.

After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).

But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.

“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.

A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.

Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.

Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.

I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…

Jx
©2009