The reality of parenting: the escape to freedom

At the minute Edith refuses to stay sleep. It’s been an on going saga driven I think by her two front teeth descending. Getting out of her bedroom when she does eventually give in is problematic.

Once she is asleep I find myself sprawled out on the floor, arm squeezed between the bars of her cot, hoping that when I do eventually build up the courage to take my arm off her back she does not wake.

But that’s only the beginning of the escape. For once my hand rises off her back and she remains asleep, then starts the tricky retreat back through the bars, knowing the faintest of touches could lead to the quietest of noises yet still loud enough to cause her to wake.

Even if by some miracle my arm escapes the clutches of the cot, fear cannot be abandoned and caution must remain. The movement of my bodily position, from the horizontal to the vertical may disturb her slumber, as my joints and ligaments reposition and allow me to rise.

And dam this body of mine which is plagued by clicky joints, most noticeably my ankles, for even when I am arose I cannot exit with carefree abandon, for fear of a creek from my troublesome bones.

And if my ankles remain silent or their creeks go undetected, there is the problem of the squeaky floor board. Only through experience do I know the route of quietest passage, from the side of the cot to the door. Should I complete this fearful journey and make it to the cusp of freedom, I may stumble at the final hurdle. The door. This barrier between me and the outside world may piss on my parade if it squeaks or floods the room with unwelcome light. Therefore with hope in my heart, and a just passable route, a leap of faith must be took to set my body free.

Yep so that’s pretty much my evenings.

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