Nocturnes

It's the middle of the night. In accordance with well-established tradition, our bed is full of restless children and bewildered, grumpy adults.

I am roused from what passes these days for sleep by a round of solid and insistent punches on my shoulder. As all the questions I'd initially like to ask have the word 'fuck' in them, it takes me a moment to marshal my thoughts.

"What the, what are you doing, F?"

"Hitting you. You were snoring." I probably look outraged enough that she feels a need to further justify this. "That's what mummy does."

Good to know that she spends so much time observing our midnight behaviour.

-

It's the middle of the night. In accordance with well-established tradition, C has decided she needs breakfast at 0415.

"Yoghurt," she tells me, bouncing up and down on my midriff. "Yoghurt, yoghurt yoghurt, yoghurt yoghurt yoghurt. Yoghurt!"

"It's not oof breakfast time oof yet oof," I say.

"Please," she says confidently, not to be polite but because she believes this to be how you close the deal.

"No, back to bed," I say, and start the ten minute process of hauling myself upright to carry her back to her room.

And then we do a little dance for forty minutes, where I put her into bed, tuck her up, say "night night" firmly and leave as she sulks. And then she gets up, opens her door and waits silently for me to come and repeat the process.

Sometimes she takes out her nap and demands one of a different colour, as though the blue one is all used up and only the pink one will now do. Sometimes she insists on grabbing and kneading my ear for five minutes or so. Sometimes she just rolls over and feigns sleep, although she's up again almost as soon as my head hits the pillow again.

Always, she knows exactly when I'm on the verge of slumber and times her entrances with consummate skill. There is never sleep, never enough, and I am a dazed and shambolic wreck during the days.

-

It's the middle of the night. No, it's not, it's five o' clock on a weekend, it just feels like the middle of the night. I've made egg fried rice and dumplings for dinner.

"This tastes like very old roast chicken that's gone mouldy," F says, grimacing over a forkful of rice. "And this!" she says, poking a dumpling. "This is like even older milk that's also gone mouldy."

"Digustin," agrees C, sticking her tongue out.

They aren't wrong, in fairness. I mean, the rice is okay, the standard of acceptable takeaway at best, but not exactly haute cuisine. The dumplings aren't nice, some spinach and ricotta pre-made bland that's almost totally tasteless. Not that this justifies my children Gordon Ramsaying me over dinner, of course.

"Don't be so rude, you two. You know the rules, I'm sorry it's not the nicest food but even if it's not your favourite, you still need to eat it up."

"Tack för maten," C says immediately, gets down and goes off to play. I gamely try to put her back in her chair a couple of times, but the writing is on the wall. So is some of the food.

V gets home, which is a moment of great joy to both girls as it gives them someone else to interact with instead of a rather sulky daddy. V is also not particularly moved by the food, although she at least pays it lip service, but I'm soon left alone with the congealing leftovers.

God! I long for time off, for a week when neither of the girls have February fevers, for a night of uninterrupted sleep. I can't spell any more when I write, I have to look everything up. Even on days when I'm not working and everyone else is out, I have no energy, no motivation, no willpower to get things done. I shamble round the house like a teenager, poking at projects and pretending to tidy up before falling asleep uncomfortably on the sofa. The news is full of Brexit, Trump and invented Swedish crime waves, my mind is full of frustration and incompetence.

Yet I can still read to the girls, or spend half hours pretending to be Pikachu with F, or play catch with C, or drag them unwilling to playparks and insist on exercise until we all enjoy ourselves despite the midwinter blues. This is normal, this is all as it should be, this too will pass.

Februhaha

Nuts, I missed January.

Well, F has learned to whistle, and does so all the time when she isn't being Pikachu. She is Pikachu most of the time, however, so I'm not quite sure how I have the impression she's whistling non-stop. Maybe it's because it's such a, what's the word, memorable noise? Lodges in the brain, you know, like a candiru fish in a unexpecting urethra.

C still won't sleep through the night. Her current excuse is teething (last week it was a cold, next week it'll be stress linked to world affairs). She's just so angry in the night! Angry that we won't pick her up, angry that she's uncomfortable, angry that we keep trying to soothe her instead of leaving her in peace like she's clearly telling us to.

A long time ago, as a junior doctor, I mastered the monotone delivery required to answer a post-midnight request for new drug charts to be written up, or a new drip authorized, or one of the many non-crucial but still urgent tasks experienced nurses were inexplicably required to ask newly-qualified junior doctors permission to do at 0330.

In fairness, it usually just mean I or one of my colleagues had forgotten to write up a new drug chart during the day, so we only had ourselves to blame. I have flashbacks to those conversations as I pat C on the back and tell her that yes, it is the middle of the night, and yes, it's all okay, and no, she doesn't need the iPad just now and yes, Rara is right there next to her. Tired reassurance unhindered by empathy, that's the thing. You need someone to vomit on too? Okay, get on with it. I won't stop you because I'm exhausted, but jeez, you're going to want to skip the speeches at your wedding.

-

Trump.

Nothing to do with my kids or my life in Sweden. In fact, we're delightfully removed from it all in many ways. Scandinavian ivory makes for good towers. Yet I can't help but be scared and livid at his actions and his behaviour. More so when I hear UK politicians (pillockticians? is that a thing?) sort of not quite defending him because they can't, but trying quite hard to for the sake of Atlantic trade.

You fucking morons. Okay, perhaps he isn't Hitler, perhaps 'monster' is a bit too much to stick. Are we going to wait until he is very clearly a monster before condemning him? Or is more slack, enough to hang us all, really the best way to deal with him?

He's not a Nazi. That was a political movement in German last century. Let's for heaven sake's not call him that, like he did to the intelligence chiefs the other week. He is definitely a fascist, promoting authoritarian nationalism with all its anti-liberal and anti-minority trappings. He said he would build a wall. He said he'd shut America's borders to Muslims. Why is anyone surprised that he's doing it?

His bark and his bite are the same fucking thing, Boris Johnson, he does actually say what he means, something your generation of Tories have utterly forgotten about. If you don't agree or approve with someone's actions, but let them do them unchallenged anyway, why work in politics at all? You clearly don't want to make a difference to anyone.

I'd like to say 'rant over' and forget all this, move back to genial ramblings about children and acting. It's actually more tempting to go and make a placard and try and stop traffic somewhere until something gets done. At least I have a peg to hang my middle-aged fury on, which is nice.