Restlessness and Rubbish

by Eve, in General, Parenting (7 Comments)

Last night, if good for anything, was good for reminding me what living with a newborn is like. Just in case I’ll get nostalgic for it at some later date. I’m pretty sure I won’t, because just seeing a newborn baby—even before it’s made a noise—gives me Post-Traumatic Stress palpitations. But nevertheless, the events of last night would be an efficient back-up deterrent.

Daniel had no discernible reason for waking as often as he did to cry and scream inconsolably. He refused to be comforted. Not by cuddles, not by a drink, not by blankets, not by fewer blankets, not by a nappy change, not by music, and not by exorcism. (Well, I didn’t actually try that last one. I don’t know the words.)

His screams were soon echoed by Timmy’s, who was most displeased about being woken in such a way.

I was tired, angry, and out of ideas.

So I shut the door and went to bed. Not to sleep, of course, but to bed. I lay under the covers and listened to the duet of lilting screams folding and layering over one another, punctuated by thumps, stomps, and Timmy’s wails of “GO TO BED!!! GO TO BED!!!”

More than an hour later, it was finally quiet.

Until it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Considering the lack of rest I got last night (though it would have been worse for Husband, who has the added affliction of being sick), I thought I did remarkably well to hold myself together for the morning. I counted down to the time I could leave the boys at kindy for four hours. I anticipated going straight to bed. I already had my electric blanket warming.

As I drove out of our driveway, I saw something I was not emotionally, mentally, or in any other way ready for: last night’s bag of rubbish was ripped open. Rotten vegetable peelings and dirty nappies were strewn over the berm. So of course, it hadn’t been collected.

The council’s rubbish collection service is paid for in the cost of their prepaid official orange bags. That’s why they’re so expensive. And I’d already had to use two of them on this single rubbish load when I’d accidentally torn the original bag on the corner of a laundry hamper as I was taking the bag out the bin.

When I returned home I would have the unenviable task of retrieving kitchen waste and old nappy parcels nestled throughout the grass like the world’s worst easter egg hunt. And I’d have to use a new bag. This single bag of rubbish was now going to cost us three weeks of collections.

And that, after I rounded the first corner and the mess was out of sight, was when I started blubbering.

I wiped my face and took deep breaths before taking the boys into kindy, determined not to cry there. This was going to be quick and functional. Sign them in. Drop them off. Get out.

It almost worked. I took Timmy to the Over 2’s section. Signed him in. Dropped him off. Got out. Took Daniel to the Under 2’s section. Signed him in…

Then one of the teachers asked me if I was okay.

At that point, my watering eyes having realised they’d been spotted, figured they may as well let loose. In for a penny, in for a pound; may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb; and all that. So past my sobs I told her that if I’m not back for him at 3:30, just sell him and put the proceeds towards their worm farm.

Instead of discussing current market values of a grumpy one-year-old child, she invited me to sit, and made me a coffee. She listened to my narrations of the previous night, and to my rubbish bag woes, looking sympathetically horrified where appropriate.

At the bottom of the cup I found the readiness to go home and collect stray rubbish. So home I went, and got another unexpected sight.

The rubbish was gone.

I looked around, wondering if it had just been gathered together and put aside.

No. It was gone.

It couldn’t have been taken by council rubbish collectors. They’d already been and left it, on account of its state. I asked Husband if he’d brought the mess in.

No, he said, he didn’t even know it was there.

I re-visited the curb and even checked a nearby wheelie bin to see if our mess had been combined with other rubbish. (This drama only strengthens my desire to use a private rubbish collection service, and have a wheelie bin myself. I’m going to ask the family budget for it, as a birthday present. I hate the stupid orange bags.)

I didn’t see our rubbish in it.

So I did the only thing I could think to do. ‘Thank you,’ I said aloud to the invisible clean-up fairy.

And I went to bed.