This is the sound that Squidge makes when he’s really tired; goyagoyagoya. Accompanied by the drooping eyes and nodding head it’s really very sweet. It’s less sweet in the early hours of the morning when I’m doing everything I can think of to help him get back to sleep and he’s insisting on making noise instead of settling down.
Aparently when my brother was tired he used to say ungieungieungie and would then sing himself to sleep once in bed. I vaguely remember being able to hear him through our shared bedroom wall.
We still remind him of that now, 20-odd years later.
My brother and the Northern One are avid University Challenge fans, watching it every week to see how many questions they can get right. I keep half an ear open when it’s on just in case there’s a topic I actually know something about.
I’m disproportionally proud when I do get a question right, especially if the Northern One doesn’t.
This evening, during the picture round the students were asked for the name of the artist of a particular painting. The exchange went a bit like this –
Jeremy Paxman: Yes, St. Peters, Oxford.
Student: Is it Goya?
Jeremy Paxman: Correct
Me: That’s Squidge’s word!! He’s not been telling us he’s tired, he’s been telling us that he wants to go on a trip to the National Gallery.
As soon as the words left my lips I realised exactly how pretentious that sounded.
It hasn’t exactly been my best night for quiz shows. I caught sight of the half solved wall on ‘Only Connect” and announced, much to the Northern One’s disgust “Aren’t those four words the surnames of members of One Direction?”
I have no idea how I knew that.
I don’t even like One Direction;.
They still look like they’re about 12 whereas I am an increasingly haarassed looking, overweight mother of one surving on approximately five hours sleep per night and spending a large percentage of the day fishing my offspring out of the newly discovered waste paper bin.
The music I most frequently listen to is Enya as it seems to be one of the few things that helps Squidge get to sleep instead of maurauding around his cot like a derranged mini-viking.
I listen to the radio in my car on the way to and from work but that’s more to keep me awake than something I’m actually paying attention to. I used to have the radio tuned into Classical FM because I actually enjoyed listening to the music. That was shortly before I found out I was pregnant and so Classic FM became associated in my mind with feelings of terror and morning sickness.
I still feel nauseous if I hear classical music in the car.
Clearly I’m just the epitome of culture.
As is Squidge.