I feel like I may have written this post before. If I have, please forgive me.
It’s just at the moment, life seems to be one long familiar blur. I’m serious. I feel like I’ve done, seen and heard everything before. This must be what Enya feels like whenever she steps into a recording studio.
Monotony, I’ve learned, is not a board game where you try and buy up all the stations before your brother. In fact, if it were a game, ‘bored’ would be a far more appropriate spelling. My days seem like a never-ending treadmill of very similar events. I’ve asked around, I’m not the only parent who feels this way.
Let me take you through my Groundhog Day.
*I’m up, before I’m fully awake, around 5.30 to 6 am.
* Either my partner or I change a nappy. How one small boy could produce so much pee is beyond me. I marvel at the absorption abilities of the boffins at Pampers, wondering why they don’t get into the flood protection business.
* Coffee is made, and consumed like it is the antidote to some extremely potent sleeping poison. More is produced. I feel like Bono during his solo spots on U2 tours – glad to have taken off The Edge.
* Sam is fed. By fed I mean baby rice is smeared everywhere, with some (occasionally) landing in his mouth. We clean him up making a mental note to re-wallpaper at some point (we won’t).
* Our breakfast is bolted down – trying to ensure we’re out of the house by the time tiredness hits the boy. Tiredness has already hit us.
* We discuss whether or not Sam has poo’d. Much time is spent on this most fascinating of subjects. Size, consistency, colour are all mentioned. I feel like a sommelier for bowel movements (in this case pronounced ‘Smellier’).
* The day proper begins – a haze of walks, play, nursery rhymes and attempting to feed Sam – covering the walls again. Every day will include:
1) Sam’s mum or I commenting on how heavy Sam has got. It’s either that or our strength has left us.
2) A comment as we remove orange food from Sam’s face that we don’t want him to turn into Donald Trump.
3) A comment that it won’t be long until we can order ‘Babyccinos’ for Sam.
4) A discussion about whether there’s an ambient bad smell or it’s just Sam’s filled his nappy.
5) A whist-ful discussion about sleep.
6) One of us discovering the other has a snot/sick about their person that they haven’t noticed.
* Around 6pm the day hits critical mass. It’s downhill from here. Sam has his dinner – more punishment for the wallpaper – and it’s bath time.
* Bath time ends with me making a mental note to do something about my knees, which are struggling with all the kneeling down it requires.
* Story and bedtime. These are always accompanied by a comment about how expensive kids’ books are and how glad we are we either received them as presents or hand-me-downs.
* Dinner, in front of the TV. With one eye on the baby monitor. Silently praying we have a moment or two’s peace.
*9pm bed. Rock and roll eh?
* 9pm – 5.30am multiple disruptions, very little sleep.
* I’m up, before I’m fully awake, around 5.30 to 6 am.
So that’s my day.
It’s proving increasingly difficult to tell days apart. I feel a little like an actor who has performed a play so frequently he suddenly has no idea whether he said his next line already or if that was yesterday.
Essentially I living my entire life on the channel Dave ja vu.
Was there a point to all of this? Probably not.
I feel like I may have written this post before. If I have please forgive me.
The Out of Depth Dad