THINGS I MISS

Louisa de Lange - 14 Oct 13

I love sleep.

In my twenties I was a pro-sleeper. Up at ten, afternoon nap at three and back to bed by eleven without any problems. Even when I wasn’t sleeping I would curl up in my duvet with a video or a book and while the hours away peacefully. I could live in my bed. I did live in my bed.

I miss sleep.

When the squeaker arrived, I discovered Sundays have these things called ‘mornings.’ Life suddenly had a definite structure and purpose; I had this tiny person who needed constant attention. My freedom had disappeared as quickly as my waist line and I missed it. Correction: I miss it. I crave being alone and I ache for the predictability of a guaranteed eight hours sleep. The squeaker is pretty good, but nothing can prepare you for the nights when he’s sick, the five am starts and the two am chirping.

And sleep isn’t the only thing I miss.

I miss the carefree spontaneity of going to the cinema or out for dinner with my husband.

I miss wandering hand in hand, taking our time and talking about something other than the squeaker. We would stop for a coffee, browse the papers, relax in comfy chairs and take our time; our only commitment at home being a bottle of wine in the fridge.

I miss striding alone through town, browsing shop windows, nipping in to try something on. I could take my time to make decisions! I could even go back to a shop I had already been to!

I miss having straight, perfect hair. My practical Mummy hair is curly and a mess – it sticks out in funny tufts like clown puffs where it fell out with boring hormonal predictability then grew back at right angles to my head.

I miss drinking slightly too much wine, safe in the knowledge I can recover in the morning.

I miss my old life, I do. It makes me feel guilty to admit it but I miss my independence and I miss the person I once was.

So then this weekend I made a bid for freedom. Two nights away in a cottage with nothing but friends, a book and DVDs to keep me amused. Time stretched out before me, unplanned, not a single routine in sight. No plastic toys to fall over, no Night Garden on the television. Good solid adult baby-free time.

And you know what?

I missed my son.

I missed the feel of his soft fluffy hair against my cheek. I missed his constant chatter and his bubbling laughter. I missed the frantic waving of his little chubby sticky hands, his unco-ordinated clapping, his comical bum shuffling. I looked at photos on my phone before bed and stared wistfully at bananas, his favourite food.

It was nice to remember who I used to be, but good to be reminded of who I now was. I am somebody’s Mum, the light of my little boy’s world, and that is good too.

But I must admit, I did enjoy the sleep.

Louisa de Lange

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