The Irony Would Kill You

The irony would kill you.

How many mothers (or fathers) do you know who are sleep deprived? (insert insane laughter here).

How many parents would give their eye teeth (or a considerable wad of cash) for the chance to sit, unhindered, in the quiet, with nary a Weetbixed finger in sight, and read a book - and not just any book - but a book written for grown-ups?????

How many of you out there would cheerfully hand over the keys to your soul for a few days of "rest"? Let me define "resting" here for you. I'm not talking about how when you've got a death-warmed-up cold and you still need to run the household and do all your normal jobs, and a 'rest' is that you make baked beans for dinner instead of your usual gourmet offerings. No, no, no. I'm talking about an actual resting period - when you are not expected to lift a finger. Not to do anything. When it is perfectly acceptable, nay, expected, that you will lie on the couch and watch the proceedings going on around you, regardless of the chaos that may ensue.

I mean, come on. No one has a cotton-picking clue about exhaustion until they're a parent. You can read all the books you like, talk to other parents, go to ante-natal classes, hang out with other people's offspring...but nothing, absolutely NOTHING prepares you for the bone-numbing, ongoing, eye-watering level of sleep deprivation that kicks in when your firstborn is roughly four days old, and continues until...well...

And how could you possibly know that the hours in your day would simply evaporate once the baby capsule becomes permanent in your car? That the idea of simply having a two-minute shower would seem ludicrous, let alone actually reading a page in the newspaper. What about reading a book, I hear you ask? You could read a book once they were asleep, right? I suppose in theory, you could. That's assuming that the baby/toddler/child actually went to sleep, and that you had no other housework or cleaning up to do (fat chance!), and that you were still conscious enough to concentrate on the plot of a book. Which is unlikely, after five hours of broken sleep the previous night.

So I think I've made my point pretty clear here. After your children grace your life with their delightful presence, there's precious little time to yourself, and even less time to devote to sleep. (But since we love them so much, and realise how lucky we are to have them, we don't bitch. Much. *ahem*)

This is where the irony steps in.

Since Wednesday, I have been under the influence of some pretty heavy painkillers, which have at the very least left me feeling as though the chardy bottle is half empty (and I probably didn't mention the other day, that on the way into theatre, the pre-meds had possibly forced me to ask the anaethestist for 80's music for the party...). This dopey-headedness, combined with instructions not to lift anything heavy, and to sleep (or "rest") when tired, have led me to spend some amazingly sloth-like days this week. There have been many jokes about my 'little holiday', and milking my time on the couch.

As I have mentioned before, my lovely husband has been taking care of everything around the house during my convalescence. In his absence, my mum and Gertrude came in to take turns caring for me. So I literally have not lifted a finger since Wednesday. And now that I am turning the corner, and have the pain pretty much under control, I am feeling much better. Wouldn't you feel alright with the world if you hadn't set foot in Woolworths with a toddler, a three year old and a school boy for a week?

This afternoon, Christian went to puppy school for me, and I was waiting for my mum and Argie to come over. There wasn't anything for me to worry about, or clean up, and I was sitting on the couch watching the kids play. And it occurred to me that I was frustrated. Because I could not jump up off the seat and chase my kids. I couldn't get involved in their games, beyond sitting on the floor - and even then, I had to be wary of the Mouse launching herself on me. I couldn't take them outside. I couldn't go around the block with Archie, who was desperately seeking my attention through the window. I couldn't even stand on my feet long enough to cook them a decent meal.

Here I was, forced to be a lady of supposed leisure, and all I wanted to do was be back to normal. And in a few days, I suppose I will be. With any luck I'll be off the analgesics in a day or so, and back into the school run, the supermarketing, the puppy walks, the backyard clean-ups, the washing and ironing and folding that never stops, the vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, cooking dinners that may or may not make my son oh-so-politely feel the need to vomit. And without question, I will be back into feeling tired a lot of the time, and wishing someone would just let me eat my lunch sitting down, just for once.

But do you know what? That's what I'm looking forward to. I had this surgery to make me healthier. And let's face it, the bedrest and the enforced hiatus from housework was very much appreciated!! But if I was given the choice between resting non-participation in my kids' lives, and rather tired active participation, I know what I'd choose. Give me running, jumping, leaping exhaustion alongside my sprogs any day of the week. Just...next time I'm on enforced bedrest, do you think it could be while I'm healthy, and able to enjoy it? Say, a week in a tropical destination, with my beloved, with housekeeping to take care of the room every day while I'm at the beach....and maybe throw in a few umbrella drinks. I reckon they're better than Panadeine for that nice little buzz.