My son permanently sleeps with one eye open.
I assume this isn’t because he doesn’t trust me and his father not to steal his worldly possessions from out under him (snot encrusted Spot the dog puppet, nah your alright you keep it) while he dozes, or because he doesn’t trust me not to do a runner during the periods he tentatively grabs 14 winks (I have to be honest, I have considered it) but because in fact his palpebral portion of the orbicularis oculi muscle covered with skin on the superficial, anterior surface and lined with conjunctiva on the deep, posterior surface; (eye lid) is, according to his father, a little bit like his mother.
(I’m not going to try and deny it, I am, I hold my hands up. I am lazy. When I get chance that is, in between putting eight washes on a day, bathing the dog, cleaning up poodle poop, cleaning up baby poop, washing the dishes, hoovering the carpet 26 times an hour (spam me Dyson, spam me!) Drying the dishes, making a bottle, frying fish, slow cooking curry, ironing baby clothes, putting on another wash, dancing to Thomas the tank engine, reading Thomas the tank engine, making Thomas the tank engine pasta, coaxing the monster to eat, making a cup of tea and forgetting to drink it, getting my head around going back to work (for a rest!) Overcoming post natal depression and putting another wash in for good measure that is. Yeah-Irish one, Lazy is what I am. Most definitely Lazy. Grr…)
Anyyyywayyy, back to the point.
Addison has always slept with one eye open. Ok, maybe open is a slight exaggeration of the event, perhaps a jar, Addison sleeps with one eye somewhat a-jar would probably be closer to the truth here.
However, unlike most freaky night zombie types who sleep with the whites of their eyes on show, snoring like a bear and resembling the living dead (Irish One – sexy!), when it comes to Addison you can absolutely still see his pupil bobbing about underneath his lashes and occasionally, just occasionally, if he falls asleep on the sofa and I am tip toeing around ‘pretending’ to clean, I would swear blind he is watching me.
Yes. My son sometimes falls asleep watching Upsy daisy messing about with Iggle Piggle on the tele. Should we move on? I’m an honest mother, who on occasion will allow this to happen as I’m sorry Supernanny, spending 25 minutes coaxing him down for a nap when he is overtired, is impossible when the dog walks in from outside with shit dripping down to his doggy ankles. I am not American (much to my disappointment), I cannot afford for you to visit me and show me the ‘technique’ and unfortunately my poodle isn’t known for having the best digestive anal tract. Explosive would be a word I would probably use here, and if I had the choice between Jo frost and Ceaser Milan, unfortunately for us, I would have to choose Ceaser.
(Oh to be the leader of a pack, that is my dream. Any pack will do.)
But anyway, back to the point.
When I was a kid, me and my best friend Kate used to live in each other’s pockets, our mothers wouldn’t hesitate to tell both children off for being disrespectful, if need be, and on the odd occasion, should we behave atrociously we would receive a healthy smack. (Big deal. I mean, I won’t smack Addy, because times have changed but back in the day? A smack was really not a big deal. Which is probably why we were such little gits, but anyway.)
One Friday afternoon as we arrived home from school, both of us excited over the 48 hours of freedom about to follow, her mother called us in to the kitchen.
‘Kate’ she said ‘Aunty Barbara bought you a new cabbage patch poster, I put it up earlier for you, go and have a look.’
We absolutely loved the cabbage patch kids so both of us thundered up the stairs breathlessly anticipating our favourite dolls cavorting and smiling down at us from the small amount of wall space belonging only to us.
(Just while we are on the subject of stairs, do you remember those stairs with the gaps in between them, just big enough to hang your legs over so you could dangle upside down? She had those types of stairs in her house and I was always so jealous. Until, that is, on one fateful Sunday, her mum had come rushing down the stairs dressed up to the nines and heading for church. We, also dressed in our Sunday best, had grown a little bored of waiting so had decided to partake in a small game of stair gymnastics. He mother unfortunately failed to notice, in her haste, my precariously placed shins holding me up from the other side, and proceeded to stand directly on to them and fall four feet on to a concrete floor flat on her face (farmhouse flooring, outfit ruined, hat flattened.) Meanwhile I was also horrendously concussed after falling heavily directly on my head due to the shock of having her Sunday best stiletto pierce my shin bone and was lying on the floor in a heap cursing the day church was invented. (I hated going to church.) The bollocking, and subsequent remodeling of the staircase, ensured we never played stair Olympics again. Shame really.)
Anyway, arriving in her room that fateful Friday, unharmed, animated and eager we were appalled to find, it wasn’t actually a cabbage patch poster.
It was a garbage pail kids poster.
If you don’t remember the difference, I seriously urge you to check on Google, or Bing, or Wikipedia, or even ‘Toys that should never have been made.com’ and feel our genuine horror for yourself.
This horrendous doll, grimacing down at us, was elegantly placed in the midst of a large dustbin tip, with a huge gash down the side of its face, and stiches holding it’s head together. In the background, 3 other garbage pail dolls were dressed in black, injuries adorning every inch of their bodies and were looking decidedly annoyed, at no doubt being rejected from the cabbage patch. (With good reason!!)
How anybody could have confused the two, still to this day, is beyond me.
After an hour of begging her mum to take it down, the requests falling on deaf ears due to the impending visit from aunty Barbara later that evening, we were forced in to heading back to her room and changing out of our school clothes and in to our ‘weekend attire.’
‘When aunty Barbara gets here girls, be sure to shower her with thanks, these posters aren’t cheap.’ Was her parting shot.
Thanking Aunty Barbara through clenched teeth however, was not the problem.
The problem in fact was that the Garbage pail dolls seemed to be focused on us no matter what corner of the room we were pressed ourselves in to.
Their hollowed out dark circular eyes would follow us no matter where we attempted to hide.
I got changed behind the bed, repeatedly checking they couldn’t spot my naked torso, and kate, in the wardrobe, constantly calling out for me not to open the door.
‘I won’t!’ I had shouted back ‘I couldn’t anyway, I am half naked and they are still staring at me!!’
Also back when torture really was only being allowed one biscuit after dinner, whenever we were ordered by our parents to ‘clean this pig sty up before I pick all your toys up and throw them in the bin’ (yeah right) we would always clean up in slow motion.
Like what we had observed the gorgeous women, falling for their gorgeous men doing, in the many TV movies we weren’t supposed to be watching.
This became our tradition. Any mundane task that needed to be completed, we would complete in slow motion, pretending our hair was blowing in the wind and collapsing in to giggles every five minutes.
Picture two nine year olds washing up while humming Harold Faltermeyer’s one famous track (the tune from Top Gun) and you have yourself a winning combination. (Albeit a slow one.) I really do wonder how her mother didn’t kill us from frustration.
This brings me nicely back to my point, eventually.
Yesterday morning my son fell sound asleep, after a morning of creating havoc, one eye energetically lolling about, on the living room sofa in front of Chuggington, while I was busy lazily washing up last night’s dishes from the casserole The Irish one made, and I didn’t eat.
(What pointed remarks? I have no idea what you are referring to, I really don’t.)
As I wandered back in from the kitchen singing the Irish one’s praises and not for one moment cursing the day we chose a wine rack over a dishwasher (what were we? STUPID?) I realised that I probably needed to do some quiet underfoot damage control before he woke up.
Sod it, I thought, looking at him asleep, on eye focused directly on to me, reminding me of times gone by spent with my eldest friend, I will clean up in slow motion, it’ll be quieter.
I was busy texting Kate advising her of just how far over the edge I had fallen, giggling to myself like an idiot, and imagining Tom Cruise aiding me to clear up all manner of boy toy type paraphernalia, all the while my little angel, was fast asleep beside me.
Much later, after I had successfully managed a decent bru, he woke up, got everything back out again, played all afternoon and I forgot all about it.
This afternoon, however, as I motioned for us to clean up before either of us fell arse over tit on a discarded Buzz light-year, Woody doll or heavily made up Jessie doll (marker pen, 3 minutes not watching. Carnage) Addison began to behave in the most peculiar way.
It took me a few moments, staring at him, feeling the colour drain from my face, the full horror of the situation taking a while to sink in, to decipher that he was in fact, cleaning up in slow motion (!!!!) collapsing in to uncontrollable giggles every time he moved an object.
There is no way, at the age of 18 months, he has ever watched Top Gun (much to my dismay), so what the Flying fu…???
I have clearly birthed an evil genius.
I am genuinely quite perplexed. (As well as thrilled he now seems to be more interested in cleaning up after himself. (Maybe he could teach his dad a thing or… what??? I’m just saying is all? Jeez. Touchy.)
But yeah, from now on?
No more sleeping on the sofa.
If he unwittingly saw me cleaning up slowly, laughing to myself like a maniac, he has definitely witnessed me doing ‘Coleen Nolan’s disco burn’ and much like the garbage pail kids, that is one thing a child of his age, should never be subjected to.
From now on though, for the sake of my sanity, I will be the one sleeping with one eye on open for business.
You can just never be to sure with these little ones.
That’s if I ever get the chance to sleep again, that is.