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

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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