Insomnia

I can’t remember the last time I had a night of pure, unbroken sleep. It may or may not have been more than eight years ago, I daren’t ponder on it too long for it’s rather depressing. During this sleep-deprived, let’s say for extra dramatic purposes, decade I’ve been awoken from peaceful slumber by various whims – from a newborn’s demands for food to the need to exorcise wardrobe residing ghosts with a plant sprayer.
Now, almost seven months into a pregnancy, I have been afflicted with pregnancy insomnia. I fall asleep at 11pm, wake at 1.30am, stay awake until 7.20am exactly, then sleep for 10 minutes until the alarm goes off at 7.30am. That’s two hours and 40 minutes sleep per night.
Thanks Mother Nature.
Apparently Mother Nature gives mums-to-be a sprinkling of insomnia during pregnancy to prepare them for the sleepless nights that will inevitably lie ahead. Her thinking on this is that once mum’s brain and body has been conditioned to function on two hours sleep a night by the time baby arrives, it’ll be less of a shock to the system.
Well, Mother Nature, if you’re reading this – and I know you are, for I have it on good authority that you like Monday’s Irish News for the weekend’s GAA coverage and are one of my blog's followers – I believe you to be a cruel, heartless witch. I really don’t need conditioning, I am fully aware of the dog-tiredness that comes with a new baby. I honestly don’t need your sadistic form of assistance to prepare me for impending motherhood. It really is bad enough giving me severe cravings for the smell of Savlon antiseptic liquid and Flash floor wash, do you honestly think it enhances my life even a jot to be forced to function on such a scant volume of sleep?
And to add to my misery, because of my insomnia I have become addicted to Murder She Wrote on Sky, which is aired back to back in the twilight hours.
The programme follows a pensioner, Jessica Fletcher, who is also an author. No matter where this mild-mannered woman is invited – be it a wedding, a conference or even simply out to dinner – someone is always murdered. Every single time.
Her friends invite her to their home for the weekend – a friend is murdered. She’s invited to a book signing in New York – the bookshop owner is murdered. Last night they even ran out of places to send her – she’d got a bit of a black widow thing going on, I don’t think her friends want her about – so they sent her back in time. Brilliant.
In every episode the bungling police are baffled. In every episode this bold pensioner uncovers the terrible truth and catches the murderer. Perhaps it’s the fumes from the Savlon going to my head but I think it’s pure, undiluted, first-class entertainment.
In the morning over breakfast I recount Jessica’s antics for the husband and kids, who couldn’t be less enthralled. I fear the sleep deprivation is morphing me into a Murder She Wrote maniac, a Jessica Fletcher bore. Sadly, I even know the name of her onscreen cat and often speak of her as I would a dear friend. The husband drew the line when I was uploading the programme’s theme tune as a ring tone on my mobile.
But for every cloud there’s a silver lining. And for every crazy pregnant insomniac there’s a bottle of Savlon and a rubbish eighties TV drama to get them by.