On snoring and how not to start Monday morning

Snoring. Surely one of the things most disruptive to sleep after a newborn baby. Anyone who’s ever tried to sleep with a newborn or a snorer in the room will know the feeling.

You’re in a really deep sleep, something disturbs you. A light snuffle (baby) a faint snort (snorer). You don’t open your eyes. If you don’t open your eyes you won’t be awake and everything will be ok. You start to drift off. A cough (baby), a light throat rumble (snorer). OK, you’re awake. You give baby a pat or gently roll the snorer onto their side. You lie down again. You’re still sleepy enough to fall straight back asleep. Just as you drift off, another cough, another rumble. (Snorer has rolled straight back over.) You repeat the steps 2 or 3 times. 90 minutes of precious sleep time have been wasted in a foggy twilight haze of half sleeping/ half waking.
A howl rents the air (baby) or an almighty snort and cough (snorer). You get up. Wide awake. Annoyed with yourself that you didn’t just get up and feed the baby as soon as it stirred or in my case, that you didn’t just get up and move to the spare room 90 minutes ago.

Now it’s 5am. The heating has been off all night. The heating in the spare room has been off since some money saving bright spark turned off the radiator. I turn on the light, crawl under the desk, turn on the radiator. I find an extra blanket and shiver under the covers until I’m warm enough to go back to sleep. The alarm goes off at 6.15. I turn it off thinking my son will come and find me at 7 as usual. I fall asleep. A friend texts at 7.30. Son is discovered in the living room playing on the computer so as not to disturb me. Pleased and exasperated at the kindness in equal measures.

Babies grow out of night feeds and eventually learn to sleep through the night. Snorers continue to hurt their throats, sleep badly and make their bedfellows miserable until they lose weight, get fit and stop drinking at bedtime. *yawn*

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The hangover

A word to the wise. When you wake up after a hard night’s drinking and your mouth tastes like a white wine and rabbit hutch combo, sniff the glass of water by the bed before you take a long slug from it. It may turn out to be warm, flat gin and tonic from the night before.

I went out for dinner last night. I ate little and drank a lot. I had been dreading the meal for days. It was organised by the woman mentioned in this blog’s inaugural post, let’s call her FS, who said my kids were “sheltered” because they had never eaten gnocchi. I went to the dinner because two people I really love to spend time with were also going.  The restaurant had a tapas menu which featured no fewer than three different types of animal cheek. It may be that I am also sheltered in that the idea of eating monkfish cheek makes me a bit queasy, but there was little I fancied eating. I knew, I just knew FS would have something to say about it. I was repeatedly offered fried courgette flower, “Try it, you’ll like it”, and beef cheek “no thanks, I’ll stick to the quail”, (so sheltered, I mean quail is practically chicken), while I seethed at being talked down to and buried my annoyance under multiple and hastily consumed glasses of cava.  The conversation turned, as it invariably does with a certain type of North London inhabitant, to children’s eating habits.  It turned to the food provided in schools.  I mentioned that my kids have their main meal of the day at school; I’m very happy with the catering there.  FS opined that I was mistaken.  School food is rubbish.  How would she know about what my kids eat at school, I wondered aloud, since her kids go to a different one.  I stalked off the Ladies to cool off a bit.

I came back to a conversation about religion.  (Why, why?)   I said I was a bit sad that the children celebrate Diwali, Hanukkah and other religious festivals at their secular school, but never put on a Nativity play. One of the other diners and I started to talk about how religion is taught at school.  FS is of course highly opinionated on religion as well as food.  Despite sitting at a table with one (albeit irregular) church goer and one former trainee religious studies teacher, FS consigned all people who believe in God to a very special place in stupidity and assumed that by definition, all God-believers are evolution-deniers.  I would point out that I never, ever question atheists, nor anyone else’s belief systems.   I’m not entirely sure when people started becoming so evangelical about atheism and demanding justification from anyone foolish enough to have a differing viewpoint.  More cava was consumed.  A taxi was called.

Clearly the most sensible thing I could think of doing when I got home was drinking more wine and starting on the gin.  Needless to say, today has been an absolute write-off although I did receive an apology by text for offence caused.

Monkfish Cheeks Yum yum.  Eat up now.

 

Irony, or lack thereof

Today I attended an ‘offsite’ meeting.  I say attended in the loosest possible sense.  At 7.30AM I reached the office, loaded presentations onto a laptop, went to the offsite location, ensured everything had been set up correctly and took notes on what the ‘senior leaders’ talked about all day.  At the end, I tidied up all the confidential information they left behind and took the laptops back to the office whilst they went out for drinks and dinner.  This was immediately after the final session of the day, which was 2.5 hours on ’employee engagement’; a session that started with “what’s a great work day for you?”.  Clearly I was thinking “Not this day”, and was left wondering if perhaps the stereotype of Americans not understanding irony extends to those that work for American-owned companies.

At 7.22PM I was one Tube stop from home and checking bus arrival times at the next station so I could judge whether it was worth sprinting up the escalator to make a bus that would get me to the shop that sells the nice red wine just before it closed.  It’s that kind of attention to detail that would lend itself to amazing productivity if I was engaged as an employee, yet somehow gets employed elsewhere in my life. Nevertheless, I’m pleased to say that I skidded into the shop seconds before they flipped over the “open” sign and saved the day from complete disaster.  Given the amount of caffeine tablets I washed down with coffee today (so I could remain engaged), I’m sure the Organic Rouge is in fact medicinal and will improve my productivity and engagement tomorrow by ensuring I fall asleep at some point tonight.

Tomorrow I shall engage fully in the task of ‘being an effective communicator’.  I will craft an email to the whole department to tell them all the interesting things their esteemed leaders discussed today and attempt to get them engaged in the company before their managers tell them there’s no bonus and no pay rise next year.  Cynicism, my old friend, how are you?

I may have been a bit harsh….

There was no beetroot dip at the kids cooking party. They made pizza and there were plenty of sweets, although the confectionary had been stuck together and turned into exciting shapes that made the children ooh and aah. That sort of overachievement patience of course only served to make me feel all the worse about shouting at my children before we left our house.

What was I shouting about? Spilled milk. I am a walking shouting cliché. (Enough with the strike-throughs.) It wasn’t enough that the milk spilled. It spilled all down the inside of the fridge door so each tray and every item in the trays had to come out for a wash as well as the floor. The fridge kept beeping to remind me the door was open. Maybe the fridge thought I was too demented to notice?

Later apologised to the kids for my insane ranting. They nodded sagely and filed the incident for later discovery by a psychiatrist.

I’m on my way to meet up with some family; my dad and a couple of his brothers. Mr OFDLDN will be there, which will be novel, what with us being in the same room, both awake, for a few hours. Happy days nights. Sorry.

You’re gonna want me for your girl

Or at least you’re going to remember to text me back…

No, don’t worry, this is not a blog about unrequited love.  It is merely the ramblings of a woman who has kids (at home and at uni), a more than full time job, a tiresome commute, two rabbits, a recently deceased goldfish and a husband who works so many hours a week he recently texted me to say he would be ‘late’ when I hadn’t actually seen him (well not awake anyway – ships in the night and all that) for three days.

Not that I’m complaining.  I Iive in an area where people think it’s normal to give children hummus and carrot sticks at birthday parties.  Clearly I’ve “made something of myself”, given I don’t think I had actually tried hummus, or pesto for that matter, until I was in my twenties.   A local mother said recently that my children are ‘sheltered’ because they’ve never eaten gnocchi.  My poor child has to go to a kids party at that woman’s house tomorrow.  It’s a cookery party.  (Of course it is.)  I wonder what they’ll be making?  Baked cauliflower and beetroot dip or something equally delicious I’m sure.