Julie Jay: My under-eye bags are so pronounced I would be charged for extra luggage on a flight
When Fred has had the audacity to yawn in my presence, I have reminded him how I have a lot more reason than him to yawn because being a martyr is my love language.
THIS is the week where I have descended into a sleep-deprivation haze, which I can only liken to the opening scene in , when our war veteran protagonist is delirious to the point of hallucination.
I am absolutely exhausted, even more so than when I thought it was a good idea to save on accommodation in London by heading straight from the nightclub to the airport where I slept on a chair until my 6am flight. (This is what the kids today would call ‘a life hack’).
Pre-children, I would find it distinctly irksome when friends would dismiss my tiredness with a sweeping statement about not truly understanding the meaning of the word until they became parents.
It always felt diminishing, so I am cognisant of never saying the same to my friends who are childless. People are entitled to identify whatever way they want — even as a human minus progeny who is tired — because it is 2023, after all.
Still, I don’t think I have ever been running on so little codladh.
JJ is a dream, an absolute cutie pie, and the apple of my eye, but the nights have taken a little adjustment. Like many of us after a few shandies, he is a big night-time feeder and enjoys munching away for most of the wee hours before nodding off just as dawn breaks and Ted wakes up.
Because their sleeping hours are devastatingly out of sync, my under-eye bags are now so pronounced I would most certainly be charged for extra carry-on luggage on a short-haul flight.
The lack of sleep has me going to naíonara drop off with no shoes on Monday, arriving for collection with my hoodie back to front on Tuesday, and only copping that my leggings were inside-out after I had brought JJ for his two-week check-up on Friday (but at least it’s a look).
Such is my level of baby-brain that I most definitely should not be operating heavy machinery, which is my justification for not staying on top of the hoovering. A new low happened recently when Fred asked me what the capital of California is. I couldn't remember that it was Sacramento.
I once prided myself on knowing all the capital cities of American states. So confident was I in my knowledge that challenging friends to quiz me on lesser-known federal capitals became my party piece, which proved a lot less impressive when compared to my friends who could beatbox and do the splits.
In a bid not just to fight against the inevitable isolation that comes with being a mammy to a newborn but also to get my brain formulating complete sentences again, I make a point this week of ringing a couple of friends, attempting to conduct an adult conversation like a fully functioning human.
Still though, I find myself reaching for words and struggling to remember idioms.
“I think that would be a case of putting the cart before the dog,” I say to one friend who is weighing up giving notice on his flat before getting keys to his first purchased home.
“Do you mean horse?” he asks, and to cover my tracks, I insist that in Greenland the phrase actually features a dog, so let’s not be so Eurocentric.
I knew the writing was on the wall last week when Fred’s introduction to our surprise visitor rang no bells with me whatsoever.
“So you’ve known this person since birth, in fact, you’ve actually shared a womb with him,” my husband stood in the hall doorway and waited for me to guess the guest.
I drew a blank when the answer was quite self-evidently my twin brother (the womb-sharing was the real giveaway).
Because I’ve got the goods when it comes to feeding our little nipper, Fred gets more sleep than me, and I would be lying if I said this hasn’t fostered some level of resentment in me at times, particularly during the midnight feeds.
When Fred has had the audacity to yawn in my presence, I have reminded him how I have a lot more reason than him to yawn because being a martyr is my love language.
Yesterday, a friend told me how Margaret Thatcher famously operated on four hours of sleep a night, as if she was somehow a person to emulate.
“I’m pretty sure if she had gotten a couple more hours, she might have been sounder,” I responded.
“I think the Obamas used to only sleep for four hours too,” she added, trying to hammer home the point.
“Well, of course, they did, sure they’re from Offaly,” I replied breezily because I know 'midlands people'.
And by ‘know’, I mean that I met Mundy on a canal boat once, which is pretty much the only qualification required.
