The Teaching Mum

A light-hearted look at parenting through the eyes of a very busy English Teacher.

The Twitching Hour

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There comes a time that all men fear,

A time that makes mums cower,

Brace yourselves and grab a beer,

My friends, welcome to The Twitching Hour.

And by ‘hour’,

I actually mean ‘night’,

I’m not going to mince my words here,

It’s often just plain sh*te,

Now, you know me and I’m not one for swearing,

But, at 3am after being smacked in the eye, I’m now way beyond even caring,

So let’s rewind, let me take you back and I’ll show you how my sleep stealing kids attack.

Beware of the Face Crawler!

Bathtime is when they grow in power,

Watching the tub, fill with glee,

Thus signalling the start of The Twitching Hour,

As The Dude stands proud and has a wee.

“I’m not washing my hair in that!” She cries,

“You’ll have to put me in the shower.”

“It will make you hair nice and soft,” The Other Half lies,

Yes, God bless The Twitching Hour.

“My toe is touching his willy!” My girl laughs,

“You can’t do that!” In horror, I shout.

I know that I am just being silly,

But I Google ‘suitable bath ages’ and pull them both out.

 

“Don’t know what she’s smiling about but I’ve just done a wee.”

 
Next comes the drying and the putting on of the pyjamas,

Followed by the crying enough to drive you bananas.

Seven attempts to get a sleep suit on,

Surely that can’t be normal?

By this time, my patience is gone,

And my language is no longer formal.

“These effin’ press studs, why don’t they work?”

“Just be patient,” is his advice,

Every night they drive me beserk,

I wouldn’t mind, but I think he has fastened one erm, like twice.

 

And where do you think you’re off to?

 
 
Downstairs I go to make the night drinks,

And, no, I don’t mean alcohol…yet,

From the landing, my heart suddenly sinks,

Because The Dude screams again and begins to fret.

Then we’re in bed and the iPad is on,

Thankfully playing Sky Go,

The Girl happily watching Cartoon Network,

And the Dude, on my phone, watching Elmo.

It starts out innocently with a bottle of milk,

Yanking at my hair as they drink.

The bedding is wet where they have spilt,

And attached to my fresh bedding there is a sour stink.

Sometimes it doesn’t end there,

Sometimes they drink way too fast,

Sometimes he throws up chunks in my hair,

And the clean bedding is now wet and then trashed.

Into the washing basket it goes,

Clean sheets from the cupboard are pulled out.

Dirty washing is every where as the basket over flows,

“Stop crying over spilt milk!” The Other Half shouts.

“But it’s wet and cold and I smell minging!”

All this chaos is beginning to take its toll,

And on my leg, The Dude is crying and clinging,

Oblivious to both the sick and us, The Girl continues to watch Gumball.

I can see you saying: “They’re still awake?

How long is this bloody poem?”

Bare with me, don’t leave, don’t make that mistake,

I’ll move quickly just let me keep going.

And now there’s the calm after the great storm,

But soon we will start with a twitch,

We’re finally downstairs; almost back to the norm,

When a cry from the monitor hits like a bitch.

So upstairs I go and feed my boy back to sleep,

My evening, I realise is at an end,

My discarded chocolate and wine – my evening treat,

“You may as well bin it.” I text from upstairs and reluctantly press send.

And now it is night time and I am officially alone,

Apart from my Little Dude’s snoring,

Of course there is always the light from my phone,

But drowsiness ensues and Facebook memes finally get boring,

 

“Mum! You awake?”

 
Suddenly, I’m rudely awoken,

By a cute, but strong little foot,

Hitting me direct in the sternum,

I’m aware my nose is way too near his butt,

Sighing heavily, I reach and rub at my chest,

Unfortunately, I don’t move quickly enough,

As he has now flipped over squished my left breast,

Tears sting at my face and it becomes difficult to stay still and stay tough.

I silently scream into my pillow,

Because he has just clawed me mid-snooze,

I begrudge The Other Half downstairs below,

Secretly finishing off all my chocolate and booze.

In the dead of night sometimes I shout:

“Come on just sleep for God’s sake!”

I become aware that in two hours I’ll be up, dressed and out,

So I prey that The Other Half is awake,

He isn’t because I can hear his deep snore,

I feed and sleep like a record just repeating,

I don’t think I can’t take this much more,

Of this cycle of feeding and reluctant co-sleeping.

But, then when I think all is lost,

The sun begins its new rise,

So I have lost a little sleep, but at what cost?

Because lovely cuddles from my boy have been my nightly prize,

Glancing at my smiling son, my mood is no longer sour,

You’ll be pleased this poem is finally at its end.

As a new day draws to a close The Twitching Hour. 

“Fresh air doesn’t tire me out, Mum. Nothing does.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One thought on “The Twitching Hour

  1. Pingback: Life in a Goldfish Bowl | The Teaching Mum

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