Oh this is the best, I never realised how good sleep was until I had kids. I even did my thesis on it, and I still didn’t know.
I was already chronically sleep-deprived from my job, and then along came babies like a freight train full of fatigue and smelly nappies.
The joke is, I thought I was ready. I was all like ‘I can handle this, what’s a little lost sleep’.
OMFuckingG, I was not ready.
Anyone that tells you that sleep deprivation is not torture, give them a baby, some coffee, and just wait for them to start guzzling anti-depressants, like a junkie at a, well, at nothing, just like a regular junkie.
Have you ever got up at night to change a poosplosion? A poopocalypse? A poopageddon? It is the absolute worst, mainly because it’s something I can do and I can’t leave it to my poor wife. One time, I took the nappy off, and he shat on me so violently that my silhouette could be seen on the door behind me, like some ghastly reminder of my bad choices and inability to keep it in my pants.
I remember one morning I woke up, we’d been cluster-feeding all night, and Em had gone to work, and left poor, helpless, vulnerable me to the whims of William (just the one child).
I remember him waking at 5am, and wanting food. I miserably crawled to the kitchen, I think I had a cold too, and I lay near the pantry moaning in despair. I was hoping that the deep rumblings of my amplified agony might shake down some bread or biscuits or flour, but I’m even weak at whinging and eventually I had to stand and face the day.
Importantly, if you’re a single parent with more than one kid, you are, without doubt, a fucking hero. There is no other way to put it. I couldn’t do it. I’d die. I hope you know how amazing you are.
Now we have Harry, and he is even worse. He’s a tweaker for breast milk, an addict for the boob, a craver of tit juice, and he wakes four times a night. Fortunately we co-sleep with the older boy, so he doesn’t wake at all and we get a bit more sleep. Suck on that, haters. Being the hero husband I am, I wake too, and flutter around like an ugly, useless butterfly offering to help, knowing full well I’m about as handy in this situation as a chilli-flavoured condom.
Consequently, I’m more worn out than a vibrator in a convent and I fall asleep faster than the Docker’s can name their premierships.
Can’t wait for him to be on solid food, I wonder if he can have pizza at 12 weeks. Send help.
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I don’t know if I should talk about this one, I’m pretty shy. But it needs to be done. Add to that, most of my clients seem to be as corrupt as a federal sports grant, so this is for you, you bunch of messed-up deviates.
I’m not going to lie, and relatives, y’all need to block your ears here, but when Wife and I first got together, it was pretty ‘exciting’. It was crazy, that’s all I’m going to say. Apart from when you combine a 100k runner with a testosterone-swamped troglodyte lifter, you have more good time’s than a cannibal in a morgue.
But we had things then that we don’t have now.
We had so much time! If we want to hook up now, I think our only window is every second Wednesday between 2 and 2:15.
We had energy! Why not have sex at night, you say? Well #### you, I say. The two babies have worked harder on us than the CIA’s waterboarding team, and it’s safe to say that on any given night, we have about as much energy as a cat in a sunbeam. I’ve actually renamed my junk ‘The Tranquiliser’, because when ever it comes up, Wife suddenly gets sleepy.
There is so much to do. Trying to time these things between naps, feeds, washing loads and meals is a complete nightmare. Where once we could lounge in bed all day, watching Netflix and waiting out each petit mort till the moment took us, now we need two weeks of emails and a lot of luck. When we were trying to fall pregnant, Wife would actually put ‘dates’ in my work calendars. Once I booked an appointment over one, and she got madder than a junkie in a fork factory.
Essentially any tryst has to be opportunistic, spontaneous and more efficient than seal team six, and about as sneaky. We’ve become very ‘goal’ focussed (though it’s hard to kick a goal when you’re rarely on the pitch).
So I’m digging in like a tick on a kangaroo, holding out for better weather.
If you’re going to have a kid with someone, make sure you love that person with everything you have.
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Can you guess where I’m writing this?
I’ll let you in on a secret, I quite enjoy the toilet.
It’s like being in prison without the issue of being so pretty. No one can get to you, there’s a social custom dictating that no one bothers you, and, well, there’s stuff to do, like thinking, movie-watching and reality-avoiding.
My life went pretty well with this, until I got married. My wife is more like that lady from The Devil Wears Prada, demanding, scary, and has zero respect for boundaries. Despite repeated polite requests for her not to chat to me through the bathroom door, she did. Until I got used to it (my spirit broke) I was more blocked up than a university dorm shower drain, but I adapted.
Then my darling future felony suspect was born, grew into a toddler, and changed the way I go to the bathroom forever.
Now it’s more like a guerrilla attack. I usually have to wait till I’m prairie-dogging, then I try to avoid eye contact like a dodgy dad does with child support and I sneak away. I sit and try to clear my mind of the million things that I have to do/have done, the weight of which tightens my bowels up like the Australian government’s climate change budget.
Hark, I hear it, sneaky little ugly footsteps and rapid, weetbix-fuelled breathing. Then, much like Edgar Allen Poe, there’s a tapping at my freaking chamber door.
Cue the entry of a toddler who generally brings half his toys with him, plus a lot of questions that I don’t want to answer. What’s that he says? A willy mate. What’s it do? Well not freaking much since you came along!
Sometimes, I suspect my wife sends him.
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This is an example post, originally published as part of Blogging University. Enroll in one of our ten programs, and start your blog right.

You’re going to publish a post today. Don’t worry about how your blog looks. Don’t worry if you haven’t given it a name yet, or you’re feeling overwhelmed. Just click the “New Post” button, and tell us why you’re here.

Why do this?

• Because it gives new readers context. What are you about? Why should they read your blog?
• Because it will help you focus you own ideas about your blog and what you’d like to do with it.

The post can be short or long, a personal intro to your life or a bloggy mission statement, a manifesto for the future or a simple outline of your the types of things you hope to publish.

To help you get started, here are a few questions:

• Why are you blogging publicly, rather than keeping a personal journal?
• What topics do you think you’ll write about?
• Who would you love to connect with via your blog?
• If you blog successfully throughout the next year, what would you hope to have accomplished?

You’re not locked into any of this; one of the wonderful things about blogs is how they constantly evolve as we learn, grow, and interact with one another — but it’s good to know where and why you started, and articulating your goals may just give you a few other post ideas.

Can’t think how to get started? Just write the first thing that pops into your head. Anne Lamott, author of a book on writing we love, says that you need to give yourself permission to write a “crappy first draft”. Anne makes a great point — just start writing, and worry about editing it later.

When you’re ready to publish, give your post three to five tags that describe your blog’s focus — writing, photography, fiction, parenting, food, cars, movies, sports, whatever. These tags will help others who care about your topics find you in the Reader. Make sure one of the tags is “zerotohero,” so other new bloggers can find you, too.