Sleepless Nights

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  • Just Asking

    A few quick polls. Only, without the easy clicky poll thing because well, I’ve never done one and I can’t be bothered.

    ONE:

    Who is going to win, a 6 week old kitten or my mice?

    Yes, I am adding to my insanity and getting a kitten. Or two. Shush in the back there.

    What I want to know is, do you think I can teach a kitten to catch mice, before the mice overrun it, tie it up with string, carry it into the roof cavity and roll it in butter and pastry?

    (No, I don’t know the sex of the kitten/s. They were found abandoned and have been offered on Freecycle. I may possibly have a soft spot for small abandoned animals that need loving. A big soft spot. Again, shush in the back.)

    TWO:

    In a fight between me and Amy’s hair, who should come out the winner?

    I’m asking because I managed to dislocate my thumb joint (near the wrist) brushing Amy’s hair. I’m not sure if this means Amy’s hair is the master of getting matted and horrible, or my joints suck.

    Probably both.

    THREE:

    There is no three. It just seemed stupid to only have two.

  • Sleep. Again.

    Dear Isaac,

    Gosh we’re getting to spend some quality time together lately. There is no doubt about the fact that I find you simply delicious and could kiss you all day.

    However.

    If you’re smiling and not sleeping at 4am, then I’m probably not in the right mood to appreciate your deliciousness. If you are still smiling and not sleeping 2.5 hours later at 6.30am, then I’m really in no mood for baby softness.

    You know what happens shortly after 6.30? Your sister wakes up.

    And sure, I could sleep while she plays in our child-proof house (child-proof in the sense that nothing can kill her. Not in the sense that she can kill nothing), but last time I did that things went terribly horribly badly wrong. So wrong in fact that I haven’t blogged about it yet because it was that bad.

    (And because I’m hoping that Canon might just cover my camera, despite what Amy did to it being non-warranty covered damage. It may have involved my precious love of my life camera, a bored 2yo, a mother who fell asleep breastfeeding, a container and some water. It. Was. Bad.)

    So baby boy, it’s now 11.26pm and on a regular night, you would have been asleep 3 hours ago. Funny how kids like to save up all their sleeplessness in order to wear down their parents. If you weren’t such a sunny child, I would suspect that you and Amy are plotting together.

    Instead of being asleep properly though, you are cat napping. I know I have said this before, but cat naps are for cats. Not for babies. Stop it.

    Waking up 20 minutes after you fall asleep screaming like a banshee is not good for me sweetheart. It makes Mummy tired. When Mummy gets too tired Mummy can’t sleep because Mummy vomits all night. Which in turn makes everything worse.

    Worse than that though? If I get too tired, I cannot play fun games like aeroplanes, or bouncing, or tickle the baby, because I am just too tired. Then you get bored and you cry and I cry and it’s just a vicious cycle.

    So really, wouldn’t it be easier to just fall asleep already for me? Like, right now?

    Please?

    I love you, even when you don’t sleep.

    -Mummy.

    ***

    We’re both snuggled up in bed together at the moment. I’m playing on my laptop and Isaac is next to me in his three sided cot looking at the wall, playing with his hands and making noises. Sleep? Hahahaha.

    Maybe later.

    I think it’s The Revolution all over again. Sleep is for the weak.

  • I love my baby brother.

    Dear David.

    Remember when you were little and you wouldn’t shut up so I could go to sleep, so I pulled your pillow out from under your head and beat you with it?

    Sometimes, I feel like doing that still.

    I love you dearly baby brother, but please, if you plan on telling people that I have a blog, could you at least do a recon mission first and check what the post at the top of the page is?

    Because if you are going to show your mentor my blog and your mentor is a known Tasmanian figure, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, it would be better for him if the first post he sees is not about orgasms.

    And to tell him ‘she reviews sex toys’ is a little bit misleading. I have reviewed ONE sex toy. ONE. Not many, just one. (I haven’t received any others yet. Maybe I should email them…) I do occasionally talk about sex toys and their possibilities, but aside from the one (1) review, I don’t have first hand knowledge of anything I have talked about. (yet)

    [My toy drawer is a little sad and sorry. I might talk the talk, but when it comes to paying out the money, I tend to keep my hands in my pockets.]

    I am laughing about it now.

    Hey, at least you thought to give him the ‘slightly adult content’ warning, right?

    Love, Ronni

  • How to fix insomnia…

    … and headaches.

    Orgasms.

    You’re welcome.

  • Hypersensitive

    You know what a diagnosis after so long gives you? It gives you a hyper-awareness of your body and what you are actually feeling. You start to pay attention to what your body is telling you and actually listen to it.

    Which, you know, is great in theory. Unfortunately it means that instead of brushing off any and all pain, I am (stupidly) paying attention to it now.

    Cue thoughts like this:

    ‘Why is my ankle hurting? Hang on, I’ll just stretch it out and OWOWWWW *click* shit. Wait, that’s why my ankle hurts. That bone flicks out. Heh. Who knew?’

    Apparently whilst paying attention, I realise just how many bones sublux [I learned a new word, isn’t it pretty? I used to call it clickiness.] during the course of my day. My knee for example flicks to *almost* out quite often. It isn’t quite as painful as a full dislocation, but certainly enough to jolt you back to reality eand make you change position while massaging the fuck out of it.

    However, the main thing that a diagnosis gives you, is the right to talk about it.

    This shit isn’ t all in my head; brushing my hair is a really fucking exhausting job, even though I cut it short because I was too exhausted to hold my arms up to brush it when it was long. My wrists and fingers do hurt. Some days I am too tired to think straight, even if the kids had a good night.

    Because I’m not ‘faking it’ or ‘attention seeking’ or ‘lazy’.

    It takes a huge amount of willpower to switch seven years of thinking around and start paying attention to your body. To stop ‘pushing through it’ and start listening to yourself and taking care of yourself.

    To realise that this isn’t going away and plan how to minimise it’s impact on the rest of your life.

    [Currently recommended: Physio, swimming, low impact exercise, healthy diet… anything else I’ve forgotten?]

    I suspect that quite a few doctors in our Tasmanian health system are going to get a crash course education in Ehlers Danlos and the effects and symptoms thereof. My family is not a small one and it appears that David is affected as well as my father’s sisters and possibly their children. [Although, Dad’s baby sister is on the mainland, not down here.]

    More to the point, because it is an autosomal dominant gene, it means that the children of affected parents, have a 50% chance of inheriting the gene.

    We’re breeding an EDS army down here. We’ll come after you with our shaky joints and we will poke you with our poky fingers. Yes, that’s right, having a genetic condition doesn’t mean our fingers are any less poky. It just means that some of us might hurt ourselves in the poking.

    So THERE.