The Boss

It starts with a plunging feeling that arrows from my throat, runs a circuit around my gut a few times, then distributes itself into every cell of my body. It’s the first thing I’m aware of at waking to the cruelest alarm sound known to man, even before opening my eyes.

I don’t so much push myself out of bed as pour myself over the edge, knowing that the bite of the winter morning air will spur me soon enough.

It does, and I’m sure it’s filed its teeth since yesterday, but there’s worse to come. I’d prepare myself for it if I could, but as I know of no possible way to do so, the best I can manage is to brace myself in anticipation.

My day isn’t really mine to worry about. Nor was yesterday. Tomorrow won’t be, either. I can only count the moments, in heartbeats, before The Boss takes the reigns of my will from me and issues his demands.

I pull my thick dressing gown tight across my chest and walk slowly into the neighbouring room, barely lifting my socked feet from the floor.

And there he is. The Boss.

He wears a defiant stare of entitlement I don’t think any 2-month-old has earned. Ever. Especially not this one.

The cruel alarm sound begins again, belting from his disproportionately-capable lungs. I gather what little strength I can from the encouraging tendrils of daylight coming in the crack between the curtains.

I need that light. In that moment, nothing else matters but opening those curtains—my sanity is solar powered. Whatever vexations I’ve had overnight, and however many times I was forced to have them, the arrival of the sun helps me break to the surface of madness and keep my nose above water. Even if only just.

The screamer isn’t any more appealing with his face in brighter light. The curtains open, his face is more obviously red as he sings his anthem.

I’m in a new moment now. In this one, the only objective in my world is to stop that sound. I feel like I’m moving underwater—too slow—as I breathe in and perform my regular dance: loosen the dressing gown, scoop the banshee out of its nest, hold it one-armed, the other releasing a pyjama button and unfastening the clip on one bra strap, then dock the banshee onto the mothership while sinking to the floor at the foot of the cradle.

Breathe out.

In the beautiful silence that follows, I become aware of the weight and the ache of my eyelids. The sunlight will help with that. I know I’ll reach my peak of alertness at mid-morning, as the sun is starting to warm the lounge and my blood. It will last until early afternoon, when the realisation that I haven’t slept in a couple of months catches up with me.

I know better than to think that things can only go up from here. People who subscribe to that idea suffer from a lack of imagination. There is always, always, more down, and only minutes after beginning breakfast, The Boss proves it.

I’ve never heard such an almighty scream in all my life. His tongue quivers in the sheer vibration of it. I hope when he’s older he’ll realise that such efforts should be reserved for truly life-threatening situations. At this age however, he seems unable to distinguish a difference between a near-death experience and a fart trying to find the door.

Persuading him to let go of his bubbles is a fierce battle of wills, every time. I’ll try everything in my power to get them out, whereas he seems to find them an essential part of his anatomy, to be retained at all costs.

My autopilot engaged, I sit him on my knee, leaning him forward, and firmly clap him on the back in steady rhythm. It’s been the best method of persuasion I’ve found so far, but I have no idea how it works. If I had gas and someone sat me up and started percussioning my back, I’d want to knock their teeth out. This rhythmic patting is hypnotic and calming for me though, if I just focus on its beat, tuning out the wails.

Urrp.

The sudden sound of a burp startles us both. His eyes open wide in shock, and surprise cuts his hollering short.

“Is that what you needed?” I ask him, willing it to be so. “Can we negotiate a treaty now?”

He looks contemplative. He tries out a few disgruntled whimpers, then evidently decides that, yes, the burp has addressed his life-threatening problem.

I bring the bundle of baby out into the lounge, and my day officially begins.

I have two competing lifestyle philosophies, but because they can’t both exist simultaneously, I bounce from one to the other with no regularity. It’s a potluck system.

The Mellow Mum in me says that in the free time I have—when the blue moons align and The Boss is quiet or sleeping—I should relax; read a book or watch a DVD without feeling guilty. Mellow Mum has the understanding that these windows of opportunity are for counteracting the stress and frustration incurred in other hours.

But Manic Mum logically concludes that free time windows are the only opportunity I have to chip away at the list of tasks that have built up during the babycare time. House-cleaning, laundry, keeping up with email correspondence and returning phone calls.

There is a red flag icon on each email I mean to respond to, but because Mellow Mum has been using my free minutes to read a book, my inbox looks like an aggressive game of Minesweeper. It makes me less inclined to deal with it.

When the phone rings, I consider not answering it. It’s only the thought of having to add another item to the ‘Calls to return’ list that persuades me to pick up the handset and force my mouth to say hello.

I wonder if it’s possible to complete a day without requiring conscious participation. It’s only after musing on the feasibility of this, for a minute or two, that I realise my superhuman mother-of-five friend has asked me a question.

“I’m sorry, pardon? I missed that.” I couldn’t hear it over the sound of the science-defying reality that you parent five kids and still make phone calls.

“I asked how the Infacol was working for you,” she said. “Is he still having troubles with wind?”

I glance furtively at The Boss. He’s quiet enough, looking out the window, but his tense frown always carries the threat of drama.

“It’s another placebo, apparently,” I say. “Absolute rubbish. I stopped using it a few days ago, and there’s been no difference.” Maybe it works on normal babies, but not beasts of part hound, part banshee, and part mission from God. “He’s quiet at the moment, but only after about half an hour of trying to burp him while he wailed.”

“I found an old record book of one of my boys, and it has a recipe in there that I remember finding really good—nothing else had worked for him, either.”

“I’ll try anything.”

I fleetingly remember the days when my personal challenges were more ambitious than simply trying to get two hours together of sleep.

“It’s just a mixture from peppermint tea leaves, water and sugar,” she says. “You don’t have to use peppermint tea—it can be dill, fennel or camomile. Peppermint’s got good calming properties though, and it’s something that’s already in your pantry.”

It may be in yours, but the only way peppermint would be in my house is in a toothpaste tube.

“Boil a cup of water with a teaspoon of the tea leaves and a teaspoon of sugar,” she continues, “then cool, strain, and store in the fridge. Try just giving him about half to one teaspoon before each feed.”

“Thank you,” I say, with what I hope sounds like sincerity rather than sleeptalking. “I’ll give that a go.”

She keeps talking, but her words slide right off my brain. I’m too tired… Too busy thinking about when today I can get some peppermint tea… When the call is finally over, I can only hope I still made sense at the end of it.

The little green box of peppermint teabags looks innocuous enough. It doesn’t look like the conquering hero of infant-rearing, but I was ready, and hoping, to be surprised.

The concoction smells awful as I syringe it into my boy’s mouth, for the first feed of the night. I feel bad for him having to taste it, but not nearly as bad as I’ll feel for myself if this doesn’t work.

He screws his face up, but I can’t tell if this is because he doesn’t like the taste, or because he’s confused to be tasting something different from his usual fare. He doesn’t complain though.

All the while I give him his dinner feed I’m nervous about what will follow. When he finishes, I wait. I blink. I don’t think I’m breathing.

There’s nothing.

I sit him on my knee and begin patting his back, and he looks at me with a puzzled expression on his baby face, as if to ask me what on earth I’m doing.

I exhale with a rush. Smile. I believe I almost cry.

I’m still in euphoria when I swaddle him and put him in his cradle and watch him close his eyes. This silence… It’s beautiful.

The eyes open.

No.

The mouth opens.

No.

The brow pulls down.

Please.

He screams.

I cry.

Through my tears of despair and overwhelming fatigue, I pick him up and begin efforts to calm him. Shushing him, holding him, patting his back… I wonder if any of these actually help, or if it just marks time until he’s just too exhausted to cry anymore.

Whatever his exhaustion, I’m sure it can’t match mine.

In a golden moment I’ve waited for, I crawl into bed and groan with relief as I feel the pillow against my cheek. I close my eyes, but with no small measure of apprehension. I know what will come next.

It will start with a plunging feeling.