Routine love

When Sticky Baby was born, Papadada and I made the decision that our little family would operate best if we followed some sort of routine. GAH! ROUTINE! Excuse my french! For some, the word ‘schedule’ is almost a swear word. It brings to mind the death of spontaneity, a stifling lack of freedom, utter boredom, ground hog day. I get it. I really do.

For us, it has given our parenting some guidelines. It has given our wild boy some structure. Thanks to a touch of anal retentiveness here and a sprinkle of I’m-Addicted-To-Looking-At-The-Time-On-My-Mobile-Phone there, we are raising a little man who loves his naps and dreams beautiful, restful dreams for 12 uninterrupted hours each night. We revel in the miracle that since Sticky Baby’s birth, the two of us are still able to veg out in front of the tele of an evening, glass of Sangria in hand.....and that we are yet to have a serious argument. Swear to God. We get along freaky-good like that, the PapaD and I.

Routines are certainly not for everyone, and sometimes I wish I could fly by the seat of my pants a little more. But let’s face it, I’m a planner from way back. I owned a Filofax before I owned a Cabbage Patch Kid. And then I named her Filofax.

It’s so funny how habits become just that. This afternoon, I had to smile as yet another groove in our day became apparent to me. I am lucky enough to have Papadada home from work a few days a week from around  lunch time to 4pm. It rocks my socks off. We usually put the Sticky One down around 1ish for his afternoon sleep. As soon as that’s done, hubby and I pass out on the couch for a well deserved power nap. There’s lots of co-drooling and deep-sleep grunting going on. We digs it. But it’s what always happens next that makes me realise what creatures of habit we really are...

We hear Sticky Baby awake from his slumber, around 3ish. Papadada stretches, heads upstairs. I stretch, head towards the kitchen, switch the kettle on. As the water bubbles and boils, I prepare Sticky Baby’s afternoon bottle while setting out two mugs, a heaped teaspoon of Nescafe in each. Papadada returns with Sticky Baby. My two boys hide from me behind the fridge - the same game nearly every afternoon - one of my favourites. I go in for a hug and my thirsty boy and I settle on the couch for some bottle-time. Papadada finishes the coffee preparations, brings me my hot mug, as I place Sticky Baby down for a play. United caffeine sipping ensues. And so our afternoon begins. Like clockwork. 

Mundane to some, I know. To me? It’s a dance that we have somehow, mysteriously learnt the moves to. A finely tuned machine, made from three parts - One big, one medium, one sticky.