Dads day vs Mums day
You’ve been woken three times during the night by your baby crying for a feed; you decide you have a better chance of sleep on the sofa downstairs. It’s quiet but not very comfortable and the blanket you brought down with you is not quite long enough. You watch the clock until seven and, feeling tired and slightly hard-done by, you get up, make yourself some breakfast and shower. Your tiredness makes you clumsy –the shampoo bottle slips out of your hand in the shower, you trip over yesterday’s dirty washing (still in a pile at the top of the stairs). Downstairs again you decide to leave the last bit of cheese and salad in case your partner wants it at lunchtime – you can always pick up a sandwich at the local baker’s. At eight o’clock you go into your room, your partner is stirring, you give a kiss goodbye and leave for work.
The day doesn’t look promising: a major piece of work to be finished by noon; an important but not very pleasant meeting in Liverpool this afternoon. Thanks to several unexpected interruptions the noon deadline comes and goes. By one-thirty it’s finished, the courier arrives, you contemplate the lunch you’ve not had, grab a chocolate bar at the kiosk outside and, with your colleague, make for the car-park. If you’re lucky, you’ll just make the meeting in time. You’re not. The traffic on the motorway is horrendous, lane closures or something similar; your colleague chats non-stop, you have no time for yourself, to collect your thoughts and prepare for the meeting. Your clients are in fighting mood. You struggle against waves of sleep and hunger. After what seems an eternity the meeting finishes on a low note. You drive your colleague back to the office and head home.
You are exhausted, fed up and starving. You arrive home and what do you see? A room which looks like a disaster area, a sleeping baby, your partner sitting with feet up, a glass of wine in one hand, an enormous hunk of cake in the other and Star Trek on the TV.
What do you say?
How do you feel?
Your baby has woken you up four times during the night for a feed. At seven o’clock, after a couple of hours’ sleep, you are woken by the sounds of your partner getting ready to go to work. They leave at eight o’clock. As the baby is still sleeping peacefully, you decide to chance an early shower. You turn on the tap, undress and open the shower door – and immediately hear the frantic cries from your room. Hurriedly donning your dressing gown, you prepare to feed him again. He feeds hungrily, settles briefly – just long enough for you to make yourself a hot drink – before bringing up his entire feed all over himself and his Moses basket. Your drink goes cold. The day continues. By lunchtime you have managed to get dressed. You strip off the soiled bedding and add it to the pile of yesterday’s casualties still at the top of the stairs. The baby remains restless and cannot be put down without crying inconsolably. Feeling slightly guilty about everything you’re not doing, you carry him around with you – cursing yourself for not having got around to ordering that Wondersling. You have managed to drink a couple of half cups of tea and, frustrated by trying to prepare anything nutritious with one hand, you opt for bananas and chocolate biscuits. You crave the cheese salad sandwich, the ingredients for which you know are still in the fridge – maybe later when your partner comes home. By early evening, you’re exhausted, aching, weepy and hungry. Eventually, after a long feed, interrupted by two telephone calls and a neighbour calling round with a cake she’d baked earlier, your baby falls into a deep sleep. You put him carefully into the carrycot of the new pram and then, looking at the chaos all around you, you close your eyes. It’s just after six. You pour yourself a glass of wine, cut a large chunk of cake, turn on the T.V. and collapse into a chair. Five minutes later your partner returns home.
What do you say?
How do you feel?