This week I’ve been wondering if I’ve been expecting too much from my nine week old baby boy, writes Ben Keenan.
It struck me the other day after a particularly difficult night which involved waking up at the hours of nine, 11, one, three, five and seven to facilitate the task of putting child to breast whil- attempting to navigate the floor-bound perils of a pitch black bedroom. Sleep deprived and confused, I set off in the car on the way to work wondering if Mothercare sold something akin to a baby-sized hamster wheel which might exhaust the boy and make him sleep longer.
After a quadruple espresso and a huge slice of perspective, I realised that although tired and looking like a well-dressed corporate zombie, I had never felt more alive in my entire life. And besides, when you weigh up a decent night’s sleep next to the opportunity for a 3am story about Penguins, it really is no contest.
Those nights of having hours of uninterrupted sleep may have disappeared for the next 18 years but they’ve been replaced by something that is growing and changing so fast, I’m starting to resent blinking as I might miss something incredible. How could anyone gripe about someone that has no concept of my needs and even less understanding of his own? The idea of putting sleep before son made me feel like I’d missed lesson number one at New Dad University, so I decided to stop complaining and set about being the best husband and father I could be. Because at the end of the day when I’m driving home after a day at work, the idea of sleeping is an unimaginable distance away from where my son is.