Last year I wrote about the impossibility of having a child who both sleeps well and eats an interesting variety of food. At that point in time, we were having exciting culinary adventures, but a dearth of sleep, and it was taking its toll. I have mentioned to more people than I care to count that there is at least one good reason why LittleBear is an OnlyBear, and that reason is his mother's inability to cope on reduced sleep levels.
For the past few weeks* LittleBear has been suffering from nightmares again. He wakes in the night in a state ranging from mildly perturbed through to sweating and sobbing, and appears to be only consoled by Mummy. Daddy does his best, but LittleBear generally ends up demanding Mummy as well or instead.
Being me, naturally I am both looking for reasons, so that I can Solve The Problem, and also beating myself mercilessly over the head for my own catalogue of maternal failings that has led to this state of affairs. Because nothing promotes rationality like sleep deprivation. I have tried desperately to spot patterns in good nights versus bad nights. (Hint: there are no patterns; except in the fevered desperation of my befuddled brain).
I think it would be fair to say that some of the approaches I have taken in the middle of the night have not, perhaps, been the most productive. There was the notable occasion when LittleBear summoned me back to his room for the seventh time in the space of a little over an hour. (I forget now whether this was via the mechanism of the pathetic half-stifled sob, or the tremulous cry for "Mummy"). I became, shall we say, tetchy. I informed him in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely nothing I could do. I had cuddled him, I had kissed him, I had offered reassuring things to think about, but he had his bed and I had mine, and it was about time we were both asleep again. Phrases such as "I've had enough of this," were possibly uttered.
And it feels as though I have been making up for this attack ever since. Because, unsurprisingly, getting cross with a distressed, anxious, sensitive small boy does not engender feelings of calm, contentment and security. It feels as though he needs the reassurance that I will come to him at any time, no matter what, because I threatened not to. I don't think he's doing so consciously or deliberately, but I fear that he fears abandonment. So, night after night, I stumble from our room and clamber into bed with him, spend ten to fifteen minutes cuddling him and whispering sweet nothings, before stumbling back to my own bed again. I have persuaded him that he is allowed to come and find me if he needs me, rather than crying alone in bed. And I have persuaded him that it is always better to call me than to be sad on his own.
This has, mostly, worked for the past week or so. LittleBear feels better and goes back to sleep. I feel more confident that he will call or arrive by my bedside, so I no longer strain to hear him. And, miraculously, after a few nights of him actually going straight back to sleep, I began to relax enough to believe that he would do so, and thus I too went back to sleep. In total we were perhaps losing no more than twenty minutes sleep each. Prior to this, it didn't matter how quickly he fell asleep again, I would lie awake, straining to hear his little voice. Just in case. I was losing anything up to 2 or 3 hours sleep on the worst nights. But, as I said, we got into a system. It was working.
Except.
A couple of nights ago, the night before going back to school after the holidays, we had another session of needing a cuddle every ten minutes for a large chunk of the night. Five times? Six times? I lost track.
So last night, when I woke for no apparent reason at 3:30, I then lay awake until LittleBear did have a nightmare, which wasn't until 5:15 on this occasion. Thanks brain, you're not doing me any favours.
Here we are then, going to bed every night, assuming LittleBear will wake in some level of distress at some point between 10pm and 5am.
Does he do so more when he's been told of for something during the day?
My self-recrimination tells me he does.
Does he do so more when he's over-tired?
My doubt at my own parenting skills tells me he does.
Does he do so more when he feels neglected?
My anxiety tells me he does.
Is it just one of those things, and he'll grow out of it, and really I should just chill out, love and cherish him, and wait for it to pass?
Probably.
Am I going to?
Almost certainly not.
* I say weeks, but it feels like months. I have lost the ability to be rational and objective about this. It may even be years by the time I next talk to anyone.
Wednesday 24 April 2019
Wednesday 17 April 2019
Outside my comfort zone
As previously reported, I have now started training to become a football coach. I spent two solid days alternating between being run ragged by young whippersnappers who turned out to be Real Football Players and being bombarded with information by a Real Football Coach.
I drove to the sports centre where we were due to be trained feeling vaguely sick as the anxiety ramped up inside. I'd managed one slice of toast for breakfast. (Note to self: one slice of toast is not adequate to fuel a middle-aged woman through two hours of classroom education plus two hours running around an astroturf pitch). I did know one person on the course, and despite the fact that we don't know each other well, it was a relief to find a friendly face as I walked into an unknown classroom to see ranks of strangers before me.
From then on I was left with mercifully little time to dwell on any of my own fears and anxieties, because we launched straight in. And it was extraordinary.
It sounds trite to say that it was inspiring, but that's the closest word I can find.
I realised that it has been a very, very long time since I've formally learnt anything completely new. My professional life has allowed me to incrementally expand my knowledge of the rarefied field in which I work. At home I've taught myself to make and do various things, from icing cakes to calligraphy and from making cuddly toys to drawing dinosaurs. But I haven't sat in a classroom and been taught something for nearly quarter of a century.
My brain was filled with a boggling array of new terminology and new ideas; a new way of looking at football and of breaking it down into its constituent parts. I was challenged to think about why I was becoming a coach and what my core values are. I had to consider different ways of coaching ranging from issuing commands through to allowing players to learn by trial and error and everything in between. The kind of things that would be obvious to most teachers, but not to those of us not accustomed to such things. And I had to run around trying to put it all into practice and trying not to be too incompetent when facing a Real Football Player*.
It was completely and utterly exhausting. I came home barely able to speak, think or function, but with my head buzzing with ideas. I sat down and made notes to try and get everything straight in my head before I had to throw myself into the next day and risk forgetting the first day. It was genuinely one of the most rewarding things I've set out to do in a long time. I may never be a great coach. I may never even do a huge amount of coaching, but I've taken the first steps towards getting involved and I've loved it. I've loved being challenged. I've loved doing something so enormously different from anything I've done before.
So maybe football coaching should now count as part of my comfort zone. But even if it doesn't, I have had a salutary reminder that learning new things is definitely something I should be doing more of.
* It remains a point of pride that I did, occasionally, manage to get past a young lady who plays for Watford FC.
I drove to the sports centre where we were due to be trained feeling vaguely sick as the anxiety ramped up inside. I'd managed one slice of toast for breakfast. (Note to self: one slice of toast is not adequate to fuel a middle-aged woman through two hours of classroom education plus two hours running around an astroturf pitch). I did know one person on the course, and despite the fact that we don't know each other well, it was a relief to find a friendly face as I walked into an unknown classroom to see ranks of strangers before me.
From then on I was left with mercifully little time to dwell on any of my own fears and anxieties, because we launched straight in. And it was extraordinary.
It sounds trite to say that it was inspiring, but that's the closest word I can find.
I realised that it has been a very, very long time since I've formally learnt anything completely new. My professional life has allowed me to incrementally expand my knowledge of the rarefied field in which I work. At home I've taught myself to make and do various things, from icing cakes to calligraphy and from making cuddly toys to drawing dinosaurs. But I haven't sat in a classroom and been taught something for nearly quarter of a century.
My brain was filled with a boggling array of new terminology and new ideas; a new way of looking at football and of breaking it down into its constituent parts. I was challenged to think about why I was becoming a coach and what my core values are. I had to consider different ways of coaching ranging from issuing commands through to allowing players to learn by trial and error and everything in between. The kind of things that would be obvious to most teachers, but not to those of us not accustomed to such things. And I had to run around trying to put it all into practice and trying not to be too incompetent when facing a Real Football Player*.
It was completely and utterly exhausting. I came home barely able to speak, think or function, but with my head buzzing with ideas. I sat down and made notes to try and get everything straight in my head before I had to throw myself into the next day and risk forgetting the first day. It was genuinely one of the most rewarding things I've set out to do in a long time. I may never be a great coach. I may never even do a huge amount of coaching, but I've taken the first steps towards getting involved and I've loved it. I've loved being challenged. I've loved doing something so enormously different from anything I've done before.
So maybe football coaching should now count as part of my comfort zone. But even if it doesn't, I have had a salutary reminder that learning new things is definitely something I should be doing more of.
* It remains a point of pride that I did, occasionally, manage to get past a young lady who plays for Watford FC.
Thursday 11 April 2019
Another angle on football
As I believe has probably been discussed on these pages, I live in a household of football obsessives. Myself included. And, due to LittleBear's devotion to his sport, I have found myself volunteering to "help out" at his team. "Helping out" has migrated to becoming an assistant coach, and being DBS checked and trained in First Aid and Safeguarding. Oh, and holding the purse strings for the team. And registering the team for tournaments. And buying new kit. And communicating with the parents. Bit by bit it's sort of crept up on me.
As of tonight however, I have started my training to become an FA Level 1 qualified football coach. I completed my first online module, ready for starting the practical training on Saturday. The fact that I've never played football is beginning to prey on my mind somewhat. Just a bit. The thought of making a complete and utter idiot of myself is becoming a more and more terrifying, and realistic, prospect.
BigBear and LittleBear are being very understanding of the fact that I will be spending 9am-5pm on Saturday and Sunday learning to coach football. LittleBear is being reminded rather frequently that it's all for his benefit, and he has no excuse for complaining. BigBear is simply being very understanding.
Back to the preparation for the course however.
Step one was the need to own astroturf boots. I decided to check out what was available online, which led to this disheartening discovery on the Sports Direct website:
(There are such things as football boots for women, but frankly, I don't see the need for such a thing. I've bought plain black men's boots. Feet are feet, and my weird feet are weird no matter what gender they are)
The next step was to complete the Introduction to Coaching module online. Most of this was relatively passive and involved reading and watching videos. There were some interactive sections however, with the answers apparently being used for discussion at the sessions at the weekend. I confess that I have been feeling a little low lately. Not quite at the top of my game. Somewhat over-tired and over-emotional. Being confronted with this question was a bit more than I could handle:
Honestly, asking someone who's self esteem is crashingly low what their positive traits are is not going to go well. I was prepared to admit to "Reliable" without feeling like a fraud, and then spent five minutes clicking on things, then unclicking again.
I've only just finished this module and I already can't remember which three qualities I grudgingly admitted to. Which is going to be another way to make an idiot of myself on Saturday when we discuss our answers.
This is beginning to feel like a very, very foolish idea indeed.
As of tonight however, I have started my training to become an FA Level 1 qualified football coach. I completed my first online module, ready for starting the practical training on Saturday. The fact that I've never played football is beginning to prey on my mind somewhat. Just a bit. The thought of making a complete and utter idiot of myself is becoming a more and more terrifying, and realistic, prospect.
BigBear and LittleBear are being very understanding of the fact that I will be spending 9am-5pm on Saturday and Sunday learning to coach football. LittleBear is being reminded rather frequently that it's all for his benefit, and he has no excuse for complaining. BigBear is simply being very understanding.
Back to the preparation for the course however.
Step one was the need to own astroturf boots. I decided to check out what was available online, which led to this disheartening discovery on the Sports Direct website:
 |
| Really? |
The next step was to complete the Introduction to Coaching module online. Most of this was relatively passive and involved reading and watching videos. There were some interactive sections however, with the answers apparently being used for discussion at the sessions at the weekend. I confess that I have been feeling a little low lately. Not quite at the top of my game. Somewhat over-tired and over-emotional. Being confronted with this question was a bit more than I could handle:
 |
| Why can't I pick "none of the above"? |
Honestly, asking someone who's self esteem is crashingly low what their positive traits are is not going to go well. I was prepared to admit to "Reliable" without feeling like a fraud, and then spent five minutes clicking on things, then unclicking again.
I've only just finished this module and I already can't remember which three qualities I grudgingly admitted to. Which is going to be another way to make an idiot of myself on Saturday when we discuss our answers.
This is beginning to feel like a very, very foolish idea indeed.
Friday 5 April 2019
All done... probably...
I have been waiting and waiting to write this post. I wanted to write it only when the building work was absolutely, completely finished and we'd put all the furniture back into the room, with all the finishing touches in place, and everything looking perfect.
You can stop laughing now.
Once reality had dawned again, and I'd realised there will never be "perfection" as long as I have a cat, a child and a husband, I also realised that I might as well post some pictures of the new room being mostly done.
LittleBear and I got the important stuff done last weekend - we put all the books in the bookcases. Then we moved his toy cupboards into place, and had a major purge of toys and games as we shifted the contents of the toy cupboards into the room as well. Then we moved BigBear's desk and chair in. And then BigBear himself moved in and has been working from home in the room for the past week. Which means my beautiful, tidy room has an explosion of cables and odds and ends all over it, as we're still negotiating on the correct choice of shelves/cupboards to go into the study area of the room.
When I say "negotiating", I'm not sure which of us is currently occupying the home-furnishing equivalent position of the ERG and who is Mrs May, but there will be indicative votes later tonight, and I may need to enforce the sovereignty of The Wife soon.
We have some interesting criteria for our selection of shelves. Firstly, and we are in agreement on this, the shelves should be no higher than the existing toy cupboards (96cm) and ideally a similar width (140-150cm). After that, our priorities are slightly different.
I require that they are adequate to house the various language-reference books still piled up on the bedroom floor (dictionaries and their friends), and I also want to be able to put all the home-computer related detritus away somewhere. The printer paper, the spare USB cables, the backup external hard-disk, the random CDs and DVDs of driver software and other-people's-photos. Seems fair doesn't it? Because I am nothing if not fair and reasonable. BigBear however, has a requirement to house not one, not two, but six vintage computers - three Ataris, a Commodore, an Amiga and a Spectrum. Each must be stored flat, at a stable temperature and with nothing else on top of it. This therefore requires a minimum shelf depth of 30cm.
As with the current shower who are occupying the Palace of Westminster, I am capable of offering multiple solutions to the above conundrum, any of which satisfy two or three of the requirements, but not all of them. One solution houses everything perfectly, except it has drawers that wouldn't open as they'd hit the desk legs. Another solution allows access to the vintage computers but has no space for the books. Another solution is almost perfect except the vintage computers wouldn't fit. Something has to give, and if I wait until we reach a decision, install it, and tidy up I think half my readership will have forgotten who I am.
Herewith therefore, some before and after photos, with very little in the way of furniture featuring yet...
The before and after of the outside do show a distinct improvement, but perhaps not as significant an improvement as we've achieved on the inside.
The light! The space! The absence of horrible ceiling!
You can stop laughing now.
Once reality had dawned again, and I'd realised there will never be "perfection" as long as I have a cat, a child and a husband, I also realised that I might as well post some pictures of the new room being mostly done.
LittleBear and I got the important stuff done last weekend - we put all the books in the bookcases. Then we moved his toy cupboards into place, and had a major purge of toys and games as we shifted the contents of the toy cupboards into the room as well. Then we moved BigBear's desk and chair in. And then BigBear himself moved in and has been working from home in the room for the past week. Which means my beautiful, tidy room has an explosion of cables and odds and ends all over it, as we're still negotiating on the correct choice of shelves/cupboards to go into the study area of the room.
When I say "negotiating", I'm not sure which of us is currently occupying the home-furnishing equivalent position of the ERG and who is Mrs May, but there will be indicative votes later tonight, and I may need to enforce the sovereignty of The Wife soon.
We have some interesting criteria for our selection of shelves. Firstly, and we are in agreement on this, the shelves should be no higher than the existing toy cupboards (96cm) and ideally a similar width (140-150cm). After that, our priorities are slightly different.
I require that they are adequate to house the various language-reference books still piled up on the bedroom floor (dictionaries and their friends), and I also want to be able to put all the home-computer related detritus away somewhere. The printer paper, the spare USB cables, the backup external hard-disk, the random CDs and DVDs of driver software and other-people's-photos. Seems fair doesn't it? Because I am nothing if not fair and reasonable. BigBear however, has a requirement to house not one, not two, but six vintage computers - three Ataris, a Commodore, an Amiga and a Spectrum. Each must be stored flat, at a stable temperature and with nothing else on top of it. This therefore requires a minimum shelf depth of 30cm.
As with the current shower who are occupying the Palace of Westminster, I am capable of offering multiple solutions to the above conundrum, any of which satisfy two or three of the requirements, but not all of them. One solution houses everything perfectly, except it has drawers that wouldn't open as they'd hit the desk legs. Another solution allows access to the vintage computers but has no space for the books. Another solution is almost perfect except the vintage computers wouldn't fit. Something has to give, and if I wait until we reach a decision, install it, and tidy up I think half my readership will have forgotten who I am.
Herewith therefore, some before and after photos, with very little in the way of furniture featuring yet...
 |
| Before: exterior with rakishly angled windows |
 |
| After: including mini footballer (a permanent installation) |
 |
| After: bifolds thrown wide open |
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
The light! The space! The absence of horrible ceiling!
 |
| Before |
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| After, with funky new radiators |
 |
| Reference books installed in high-level shelves |
 |
| Before: unusably small stump of room |
 |
| After: stump has become "my" library corner |
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| After: once I have an armchair I may never leave |
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