There will be sleeping enough in the grave

It is an exquisite form of torture, sharing a room with a teething baby. There is something almost to be admired in the proficiency in timing one’s waking to maximise the disruption to his the sleep of both parents.

Seriously, wait for them to get in bed, maybe let them browse the Internet a little on matching laptops, let them just nestle into sleep then WHAM!! ”WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

See for me, an intense wail ensures that I won’t back to sleep for a minimum of 45 minutes, but more usually between 45 minutes and 90 minutes.

Ez has been waking every two hours.

You might be able to see the frustration here. Thus, for every two hour cycle of baby sleep, I generally get somewhere between half hour to an hour.

And he doesn’t really go back to sleep after 5 am.

And Henry wakes between 6 and 6:30.

And I leave for work at 7:20.

It is a good thing that he has a nice smile.

Oh, the above photo was taken yesterday morning just off Sullivan's Cove. For some reason, a lot of people race yachts to Hobart around this time of year. I'm not sure why, but it might have something to do with sharks.

Comments

blackie said…

ugh. I do remember this particular brand of hell. pass jen the vodka. and have a swig yourself.

6 January 2009 at 19:31

Unknown said…

I remember when my nephew was teething, he lived here then... no fun!!!!

7 January 2009 at 06:22

Kris McCracken said…

Blackie, the grog would just make me feel worse. It's set for a controlled comforting weekend!

Uncertainhorizon, jeez, it's bad enough when it is your own baby annoying you, I'd hate to think of how I'd feel if it was someone else!

9 January 2009 at 15:33

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

This will hurt me...

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