Brotherly Love



Desperately Seeking Sleep


Last night I found myself commando crawling across the floor, holding my breath for fear my exhales would wake him.  I reached the door and was just about to cross the boundary to freedom when those damn creaky floorboards alerted him to my escape and the torture began once again.  I’m sure he has a special power that allows him to sense my presence.  He can be in the deepest sleep and he will wake at the very moment I take my final step out of his room.  If I’m lucky enough to actually make it into bed, he times it perfectly to wake just as I am about to fall asleep, or worse I’ve fell asleep and wake thinking its been hours but in fact its only been minutes!!!  Everyone says it gets easier, first it was wait until he’s 12 weeks, then 12 weeks became 16 weeks, then it was wait until he starts weaning, then it was wait until he’s one.  Well he’s nearly two and he still refuses to sleep…or should I say refuses to let me sleep!  I’m still amazed how his twin brother can sleep through his screams, he has always had an ability to drown the screams with sweet slumber.  Oh how I envy him!

Yet despite the never ending torment of sleep deprivation, there are those moments at 5am when I hold him and he nestles his cheek against my heart, I remember that it was not so long ago that I would lay awake at 5am dreaming that one day I would be woke in the night by a mini us, or those nights I spent crying after yet another period, or nights after hormone injections wondering if there would ever come a day that someone would cry for me in the night just for a cuddle, that one day someone would look at me like I was their everything.  Its when he finally succumbs to sleep, that the silence reminds me that whilst I’m desperately seeking sleep there was once a time I was desperately seeking motherhood, and through the heartache, pain and fear I was blessed not just with one but two little ones who look at me and melt my heart.  It gives me hope that although it can take a while, dreams can come true.

“Skinny Jeans” – Friend or Foe?

The ‘skinny jeans’ those jeans we’ve had from those days gone by when we had the perfect jeans, that made us feel like we had the perfect bodies.  But with our increasing waists coupled with our decreasing metabolisms it was inevitable that, that top button was never going to fasten no matter how hard we breathed in.  So we fold them neatly, and reluctantly place them in the back of our wardrobes vowing to fit into them once again.

So why do we keep them there?  Is it our inner sadistic tendency to constantly be tormented by their whispers of ‘will they fit? Do we revel in the dilemma of that internal debate of whether or not to try them on? Or is it because they are the only friend we have that will actually tell the truth when it comes to that infamous question ‘does my bum look big in this?’

We all have our body hang ups and we all seek the perfect remedy to cure our Buddha bellies, big bums, thunder thighs and bingo wings.  Could the ‘skinny jeans’ be the miracle cure we’ve been searching for?  When we slide each thigh into those denim legs, fingers and toes crossed, hoping and praying that our feet will come out the other end, its amazing how such flaws can disappear as quickly as a zip is effortlessly fastened.  As we stand in front of the mirror, we no longer feel fat and frumpy unwilling to face the world, instead, our new friend has given us a feeling of sexiness, youth and inhibitions.

In reality though, how many of us have tried on these jeans and actually struggled to get a thigh in never mind anything else?  Is it not true that nine times out of ten, when we try them on they don’t fit any better than they did a week ago and instead of that state of euphoria we long to feel we actually feel a sense of self loathing, paranoia and along comes that reoccurring promise of never to eat again.

Whilst some of us will take this promise very literally, some will head straight for that secret stash of chocolate, ice-cream or crisps that we keep for ‘emergencies’ and make a new promise to start ‘on Monday’.  Both solutions are self destructive, and it begs the question why not throw the jeans away?  After all is it realistic for us to think that we will fit into something that last fit us 5 or 10 years ago?

The truth is, deep down we know it’s only natural that our bodies will change over the years and the chances of us fitting into something we wore years ago could be as equal to those of winning the lottery.  Yet we still play the lottery in the vain hope that one day we might just win.  And so our jeans remain in the dark depths of our wardrobes persuading us to eat less, indulging our nostalgia and feeding off the notion that one day dreams can come true.