Young Farmers Do It Early In The Morning

Harry has, I think, read my book on baby sleep problems and decided that he has adequately mastered all the challenging behaviours in the initial chapters. He obviously feels that the time is right to move out of his comfort zone of squalling, grizzling, wriggling, rolling, and move it right on up into thrashing, kicking, and crunching headbanging – how does the child know that his parents’ marriage was the formal amalgamation of two fine collections of heavy metal cds?

Cheated of my intended co-sleeping by virtue of his premature low birthweight maleness (all bad bad baaaad for SIDS) I have compromised by pulling Harry’s cotbed up tight to my side of the bed. There is a low rail between us to prevent breakouts, but I can reach in to stroke & nuzzle him gently, and he can reach out to yank my hair roughly whilst I sleep. So: happy days.

I was nastily awoken twice in the very small hours by a brutal smash next to my ear, and expected to see our baby concussed, bleeding, comatose… or at the very least, taking a monumentally deep breath in order to complain volcanically about his throbbing head. But no. Harry had merely been attempting to roll off his tummy onto his side: this manoeuvre is customarily preceded by a violent head thrust in the direction in which he intends to travel. Upon finding his path blocked by solid wood, our ivory-skulled specimen subsided immediately back into his original position, without breaking slumber. 

Further evidence that he was essentially impervious to collisions was gathered at 3am, when I woke again to the sound of cot bars being xylophoned enthusiastically, nay, dementedly. Upon lifting my head, I was met nose to nose by a beaming cyclops. Harry’s blocked tear duct had glued his one eyelid tightly together in best piratical fashion, but I could clearly see in the dimness that his other eye was sparkling with all the joys of spring & his total delight at Mummy’s advent into this lovely new day. 

Crap. He’s going to take after his father. Up with the blighted lark & bursting with obscene amounts of bounciness. Tiggers may like to bounce, but they have nothing on my bloody family, I tell you. At least this one is a few years away from badgering some poor girl for early morning fun & games. The most I could manage at 3am this morning was a sleepy mumble and a gift of a comforting finger poked through the bars for him to chew himself back to sleep on – it was gratefully taken advantage of, and I duly passed back out into oblivion; I think beating him to it by quite a margin.

Oh boy. I is bleary.

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