You may have noticed, if you’ve been paying really close attention, that I haven’t been around for a while. There’s a reason for that. I am now the proud father of two small children. Three weeks ago my wife gave birth to my daughter, who now, along with my three year old son, is the recipient of all my time and energy. Writing a blog, you say? Yeah, that’s kind of down the pecking order of my priorities right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m elated: every day is a gift and all that shit, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Last night I managed to get four hours sleep, which was awesome. Most nights it’s two or three. My daughter, in her brief time with us, has decided that she likes being held. Constantly. This means that either myself or her mother must be awake at some point through the night holding her, so that she can sleep. Unless of course she decides it’s time to be fed, in which case she’ll charm us with her attention for a diaper and a bottle, then it’s back off to Slumberville. It’s impressive really; that’s the kind of high maintenance her mom would be proud of. Were she not so fucking tired all the time.

We could manage this, just, were it not for a rather loud and boisterous three year old we share a home with. With him night time is not a problem – it’s the bit in between we have trouble with: he’ll sleep like the dead from 9pm ‘til about 8am. But then … then the screaming begins. And does not fucking end. Running away won’t help; like Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans… he will fucking find you. I’ve taken to hiding out in the bathroom. I’ve got a bunch of books in there, along with my wife’s iPad. All I need is a mini refrigerator and I never have to leave. At this point I’m shitting more than a puppy on your brand new beige carpet. But still, my son hunts me down, banging on the door and squealing with a fury only a three year old can realize.

Then, as the sun sets, and bed time nears, my daughter decides this would be an awesome time to raise her fuzzy little head from whomever’s chest she’s lying on, and grace us with her presence until about 2 am. And thus the dual source of mine and my wife’s exhaustion completes its daily cycle. I’m convinced the two of them are working in tandem, like some kind of cherubic, pink-skinned, chubby-cheeked tag-team sent from above to purge us of our sins. Through sleep-deprivation.

And have you ever held a sleeping baby? It’s like taking fifty Valium and climbing into a bed made from angel’s feathers and fucking clouds, while Morgan Freeman recites nursery rhymes. Now try it on a day when you can measure how much sleep you got the night before in minutes, not hours. If you can stay awake through that shit, you have my eternal respect. Right now, my wife has taken my son to the store (I can still hear him scream from here though), so our daughter is asleep on my chest. It feels like my eyelids are made from plutonium, and actually, as you can probably tell from the quality of writing, most of this post was written by my face falling repeatedly onto the keyboard.

In fact, and I’m a little ashamed to admit this, a few nights ago, while lying near the edge of the bed, I fell asleep holding her and almost dropped her. And by ‘almost dropped her’ I mean ‘definitely did drop her, but caught her’. And by ‘caught her’ I mean ‘broke her fall’. Oh put the phone down… the floor was carpeted, and she only fell about 6 inches – like I said, I broke her fall right before she hit the ground with a light thud. But seriously, what sort of fucked up survival instinct is that? What the hell was Mother Nature thinking? “I know; I’ll make these defenseless, vulnerable, utterly dependent baby humans so loud and demanding, that they cause the very people they rely on to keep them alive, in a state of exhaustion that risks all of their lives. What can go wrong with that?” Survival of the fittest? Fuck you too, Darwin!

Anyway, my son is home and my daughter is awake, which means it’s time to eat and poop … I think I’ll poop first.

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