MOST people set an alarm to get themselves up in the morning – in this house we’re starting a new experiment this week where we’re setting an alarm to remind ourselves to go to bed.
We’re a disaster when it comes to going to sleep, gobshites, the pair of us.
I can’t even blame The Beast – for whatever reason the Gods of Sleep smiled upon us and he’s a good sleeper, goes down handy enough for the night and sleeps through. So it’s not him keeping me awake or depriving me of my precious zzz-eds.
It’s me. And Yer Man. And Infomercials.
While The Beast is a good sleeper, he’s doesn’t go down until late (around 9pm/9.30pm) though he sleeps then until 8.30am the next morning. But by the time we get him down, half the night is gone and really, we should be packing up for bed ourselves.
But we don’t. After he goes up we take a bit of ‘me time’ – I’ll do a bit of blogging and social media, Yer Man will play a bit of Championship Manager and then before we know it, it’s nearly midnight and we haven’t said a word to each other all night.
So we’ll plop onto the sofa for a chat and end up staying up even later, flicking through the channels trying to find something to watch even for half an hour.
It’s become a bit of an obsession at this stage. I’m actually getting a bit afraid at how much we enjoy them and naturally, the shite-er the product, the more we like them.
There’s nothing we like more than slagging the arse off a product, mocking anyone who’d even consider buying one.
Yer Man’s current object of scorn is the Nutribullet – you can’t turn on the telly after midnight without seeing an ad for this magic blender yoke that claims to make vegetable water taste nice.
“What’s he putting in there now? Beetroot? With cabbage? Ah for fuck’s sake that’s vile,” he’ll gasp, eyes bulging, glued to the telly. “That’s a pile o’ piss so it is.”
“Isn’t it,” he’ll demand suddenly turning to me wild eyed, “Isn’t it a pile o’ piss?”
And I’ll have to agree and repeat “pile o’ piss” soothingly until he shuts up. (Though actually, secretly, I wouldn’t mind a Nutribullet.)
Another favourite is the garden hose that starts off really small but expands as you fill it. Phallic-tastic!
And don’t start me on the mineral make up that covers birthmarks and turns ordinary women into supermodels, I have to get me some of THAT. Or the steam mop that cleans everything from your oven hob to your floors to your fanny (not really). I’m obsessed with it. Obsessed.
We’ll reluctantly head to bed then in the wee hours aghast at how, yet again, we’ve let the time run away from us. It wasn’t so bad in the summer as Yer Man was off but now that it’s term time again, and he’s back to working his three jobs, something has to change.
So from tonight we’re pulling The Beast’s bedtime back slightly (even just 15 minutes) and I’m setting a first alarm for 11pm to remind us it’s time to turn off the laptops and actually have a chat and watch some TV on the couch; then a second alarm for 40 minutes later to tell us to go to bed.
The aim is to be in bed asleep by midnight every night during the week. That might sound really late to some of you but for us it’ll afford Yer Man 7.5 hours sleep and me 8.5 hours every night and hopefully we’ll see some positive benefits.
Operation Put Down The Infomercials And Go The Fuck To Sleep (OPDTIAGTFTS) begins tonight. We’ll see how long it lasts.
Thursday, August 14, 2014. A suburban house, somewhere in Celbridge. The night time routine has begun.
9pm: Look what Mama has! A bobba all for Seán. *nestle into chair with contented suckling baby, feeling like Earth Mother*
9.15pm: Let’s read your books now before bed. Look! That’s not my bear! His claws are too shiny. *cuddle sweetly scented baby and feel smug about picture perfect family moment*
9.30pm: Say night night to Daddy now, it’s time for bed. Oh that’s a big yawn for a small boy. Come on to bed sleepy head.
9.31pm: Sit in chair next to cot, turn off light.
9.42pm: Look at clock on phone. Wonder if baby is anywhere near asleep yet. Hear baby giggling to self.
9.52pm: *next door’s front door opens and youngster starts calling her sister*
Mam says you’re to come in.
Now, she said.
I DON’T KNOW! OOOOLLLLLGGGAAAAAAA!”
10pm: Unclench jaw, attempt to relax in the dark.
10.12pm: Attempt to leave room as baby’s breathing has slowed.
10.13pm: Re-enter room 30 seconds later as baby has an absolute mickey fit because you attempted to leave the room.
10.15pm: Look at Twitter on screen so dim you almost make yourself blind trying to read.
10.20pm: Put soother back in baby’s mouth. Think silently to self ‘please go to sleep baby’.
10.22pm: Look at Facebook, remembering to turn off volume just in time. Damn autoplay.
10.25pm: Put soother back in baby’s mouth.
10.26pm: *battery is low, connect your charger*
10.28pm: Look at Twitter again. Sign at all the TV programmes you’re missing while sitting in the dark.
10.30pm: Put soother back in baby’s mouth. Think silently to self ‘For the love of GOD go to sleep’
10.32pm: *battery is critically low, connect your charger*
10.33pm: Delivery driver arrives two houses up, leaves car door open with loud music playing. Has jocular exchange with punter at the door.
10.35pm: Spend two minutes fantasising about tracking down delivery driver and punching him in the throat.
10.37pm: Phone turns self off.
10.39pm: Put soother back in baby’s mouth. Think silently to self ‘Just go the fuck to sleep!’
10.45pm: Baby flips over onto side and almost headbutts self against cot bars. Breathing become slow, deep and even. Wonder briefly if baby is concussed. Decide on balance of probabilities he isn’t. Cross fingers.
10.48pm: Slowly stand up from chair. Listen to heart beating like the clappers with The Fear that baby will wake.
10.50pm: Creep from room stealth like, ninja style, without making a sound.
11pm: Collapse on to sofa.