It is Friday 24th July and it is 8.30pm. Hello and welcome to ‘Cot Watch Live’.
What is Cot Watch, you ask? Well, basically it is me upstairs watching a cot. I can almost hear the TV producers banging down my door. This week the Ninja Flippin’ Dude has officially been the Snottiest Boy on Earth and being the soft mum that I am, he has been sleeping with me. Well, no more! I vowed that over the summer holidays I would get the boy off the boob and in his own bed. I will have over seven hours of sleep in 2015, by God, I will.
What you need for Cot Watch:
- A baby (pictured.)
- A cot (pictured.)
- A V-Tech thing that plays music in pink (it once belonged to the girl and failed miserably at getting her to sleep in her own cot. Pictured.)
- My favourite purple M&S dressing gown (pictured.)
- Formula made up and a flask all ready to go
- A glass of red wine (pictured.)
- A boob (thankfully, not pictured.)
I am just going to hold it there as it has been at least ten minutes and he hasn’t cried. I am worried.
*Grabs iPhone and switches on torch.*
Okay, I have checked and he is still asleep and still breathing. I had to use stealth like movements as every bloody floor board in this house creaks. Upon arriving at the cot, I had to take a moment as the blood was pounding in my ears and I struggled to hear his long deep breaths. But, don’t worry, I am back and have just taken a big gulp of wine to calm my nerves.
It all started so calmly at 6.45pm this evening. We had finished our haute cuisine of spaghetti hoops, oven chips and fish fingers (we all ate this as tomorrow is The Big Shop) and suddenly bath time was upon us once again. I ran the bath for the girl and got the boy ready for bed. After ten minutes or so, the Other Half came into the bathroom, tagged me out (in a WWE Wrestling kind of way) and I was allowed into our room to start Operation Bed Time. The lights were dim, the formula was made and warm, the Dude was snuggled in his all in one and laying next to me. I removed the bottle lid. He drank. This is a small victory in itself as he often likes to play with the teat, push the bottle away, stand up and shout: ‘Woman! Give me boob!’ Okay, okay, so maybe not that last two, but that’s totally what is going on in his tiny little head. His little eyes started to glaze over as the milk started to warm his little tum.
Across the hall in the girl’s room, I could hear the Other Half’s frankly brilliant way of settling her down for bed. And by ‘frankly brilliant’, I mean sh*t. Since having the boy back in January, my nose has been well and truly pushed out of the girl’s bedtime routine; I am lucky these days if I get a kiss, a cuddle and a slap around the chops before she goes running off into her room shouting the words “It’s activity time, Daddy!” Ah yes, Activity Time. What a great way to get your three year old ready to enter the land of nod.
This is what you need for Activity Time:
- A Dad (or any parent) who is a glutton for punishment
- A three year old child
- The ability to lift the three year old child by her legs and swing her around upside down
- The strength to then grab both the three…
…9.18pm – The boy has woken…
…9.36pm and I am back. I sung Twinke Twinkle four times, shoved the V-Tech thing back on, stroked his hands, got my hand caught in his vice like grip, read ‘Just a Normal Mummy’s’ latest hilarious blog post (that made me question my not so hilarious one and my ability to write in general), escaped from the death grip and rolled (yes, rolled) out of his room. And here we are.
*Drinks another mouthful or red wine*
Right, where was I?
- The strength to then grab both the three year old’s arms and legs together and then swing her up and down
- A bed strong enough for a three year old to bounce on for ten minutes
- An iPad with Barbie: Life in the Dream House on or ‘Super Why’ for when you feel guilty about not practising her letters with her that day and insist on an ‘educational programme’
Yes, it’s no wonder she takes ages to get to bloody sleep. We made a rod for our own backs there.
Luckily for me, the sound of Barbie and Ken chuckling over who had the plastic pox (a doll ailment apparently) did not seem to bother the boy and he continued to doze and drink his milk. After a few minutes, the teat was released and I secretly cursed him for only drinking four of the seven fluid oz as I knew that the boob may well have to make an appearance. Like I was holding the finest bone china, I carried him to his cot and placed him in. His eyes opened. He looked at me and immediately I knew that holding eye contact was a big mistake. His eyes glazed again and shut. I did a little shimmy and a fist bump and the damn floor board creaked. He woke, he flipped and he cried. Crap.
Controlled crying commenced for at least three minutes and forty three seconds before I broke, returned him to my room and used the boob and five minutes later he was snoozing again. Once again, ninja like, I moved him from my room and into his cot. Guess what? You already know the answer. He flipped and cried. The V-Tech thing went on, I sat down and stroked his back. After ten minutes or so he fell asleep so I ran down stairs sterilised a bottle, boiled the kettle, poured some wine, grabbed the lap top and told the Other Half all about my ‘Cot Watch’ plan. “Good idea,” he said. “Best get up there straightaway before he wakes again.” Ah, how we love spending our evenings together…
And so it is now 10.01pm and I realise that I am missing a trick here. The boy is asleep and has been for the best part of an hour if we ignore the 9.18pm blip. I should be sleeping too and not typing away on this lap top.
Happy Friday night folks! Good night.
I’ll just go check on him again. *Grabs iPhone*
I also need to bring the bottle and formula up from down stairs.
And finish my wine.
And add the photos to the post. I’m not going to sleep any time soon am I?
Thank you for joining us for Cot Watch. Same time tomorrow? No, I thought not.