Worry

Regular readers ("Hello mum!") will know that I worry quite a lot. Just because I'm a worrier, doesn't mean I haven't got a reason to be worried. Allow me to present Submission A, Mi'lud;

Barbie Does Dallas

This is not a random occurrence. Whenever I find the Girl's Barbie, she's in this position. The Girl is either making a statement on the sexualisation of children's toys, or she's opened a toy VD clinic. And yes, that cushion is saying "hello." Its very polite.

Its not that I really think that she's doing these things. But it worries me on a level I can't quite explain. As if its a little warning that in the future, when the Kids are a little older, things will be much more complicated. In the same way that I say to prospective parents "Huh! Think things are tough now, wait until your kid is born!" parents of teenagers say; "You ain't seen nothing yet, mate." The Wife tells me horror stories of what she was like as a teenager, and I remember... Well, actually I was a geek. I spent most of my childhood trying and failing to program a ZX Spectrum. My highest level of achievement was;

10 Print "TITS!"

20 Goto 10

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

The idea of the Girl liking boys (or girls) is still a dim and distant thing since she's only three. I can't quite imagine how I'll react to a spotty oik turning up on my doorstep claiming to be her boyfriend. I my head I'll say "No. You're not," and spray Mace in his eyes. But on a certain level, I know I won't be doing that. At this point I'm more concerned about her anger management issues and sadistic streak.

"Where's mummy going?"

"She's going to give blood."

"I want to see!"

"You wouldn't want to see people sticking needles in her."

"I would!"

Or her weird obsession with the cat

"I'm sniffing Boris' bum!"

However, I once had a discussion that if the Girl was parachuted into the jungle she'd find a way to survive. She's naturally pragmatic. She'd be a bit like John Rambo in First Blood. She isn't the one to worry about.

The Boy, on the other hand... Well, the Boy isn't that practical. He has to learn everything the hard way

(Examining his pants) "My plan worked! At school I wiped my bum AFTER I did a poo!"

If you parachuted the Boy into the jungle, he wouldn't survive. He'd get eaten. Probably by the Girl. Either that, or there would be some terrible misunderstanding. It seems that the Boy doesn't so much get the wrong end of the stick, but miss the stick entirely. As demonstrated by

"Where's mummy?"

"She's getting the car fixed, then giving blood."

"To the car?!?"

And

"I don't know why they call her Mrs Lovall. She doesn't love anyone."

Or, he'd forget to eat. The Boy has a memory of a strobe-lit goldfish. Every day he comes home from school and I ask him what he did, and every day he says; "I forgot." In fact, he can forget things mid-sentence.

‎"Dad, what's the difference between a bogies and spinach?"

"I don't know. What is the difference between bogies and spinach?"

"I can't remember."

Most of all I worry he's going to end up in a secure unit with one of those nice button-up-the-back canvas jackets they give you.

"I licked a blow off once."

Dog House

The Boy is in the dog house. I took a day off work early last week and had the opportunity to drop the Kids at school. It was during this that the Boy indulged in his new game. He stayed in the car whilst I dropped the Girl off an when I returned he'd turned the interior of the car into the third circle of hell by dropping his guts so pungently it actually made me cry. I'm not sure what we've been feeding him but the Police could use it to disperse rioters. I had to drive with my head out of the window. Naturally he thought this was hilarious. So hilarious he did it to the Wife the next day.

Then at bath time we had our traditional row, culminating in the following conversation;

"Don't forget who is the boss around here."
"Mummy."
"No... Well, yes. But who else is the boss?"
"Grandma?"
"No..."
"The Girl?"
"No!"
(Pause) "Boris?"
"No, Boy. The cat is not the boss. I am the boss."
(Doubtfully) "Mmmm."

On top of this he's become so obsessed with his new camera he constantly videos things. More often than not me. Its like being under video surveillance. Its only a matter of time before he shows the camera to the Wife and says; "Listen to what dad is saying" and she hears me talking about the time I trapped my balls in a Corby trouser press.

To cap it all off he was kicking a football about and I overheard him yell


"Chelsea score!"

I support Charlton. (I should explain this for my American readers - imagine your son tells you he doesn't like baseball / basketball / American football but instead wants to play soccer. I know. Unthinkable)

Clearly, this is beyond the pale. So much so that I texted the Wife what he'd done and told her he had a week to find somewhere else to live. Her response to this was "Tell him to support Manchester United, they're way better" so a divorce is on the cards. 

And for that I blame him. 

The Girl has been sweetness and light this week though. Well... up until today when - whilst walking past her pregnant Aunt who was sitting on the sofa - she paused, prodded her tummy and gave her a look as if to say; "Sort it out, love."Dog

Driving Me Nuts

If there is one universal truth it is this; nothing sucks the fun out of a traffic jam like kids. I love driving, I love my Kids. I would rather feed myself into a garden strimmer than put the two things together. You see driving is my favourite form of catharsis. The inside of my car is the one place that I can shout obscenities at people without being punched in the face.

Generally.

The Wife recently noted that my own driving style involves loudly and angrily pointing out the idiocy of my fellow drivers whilst remaining blithely unaware of my own errors. I think she's half right. Allow me to give you an example of my driving philosophy. 

Disclaimer: if you drive a Volvo, wear gloves whilst driving, smoke a pipe or don't have opposable thumbs, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU

I reserve a particular hatred for people who hog the middle lane on motorways. The sort of hatred that most people reserve for serial killers, wasps or the Jeremy Kyle show.*  As a result of this I have come up with a brilliant way of dealing with them. First of all I catch up with them in the slow lane, carefully and safely (and more importantly - legally) move into the fast lane and overtake. When I'm a few hundred yards ahead I move back into the slow lane and then slow down to let them overtake me. Then I go back out into the fast lane, overtake and repeat. So in effect you orbit the offending car. Not only is it safe, its educational for the offending driver, and its bloody hilarious. My record is fifteen circuits around the same car. The only reason I stopped was because I'd missed my junction. The Wife hates this.

Now you might be thinking I'd be insane to do this with the Kids in the car, and that's my point. I don't get to do it when I have the Kids in the car. Put kids in the car and driving becomes mundane and dreary. At no point are you allowed to have the sort of fun that starts with; "WATCH THIS!" and ends with a car exiting a hedgerow backwards whilst on fire. And that first drive with your new born baby - there's no joy in that either. Its like driving with nitro-glycerine in the boot. The whole time you're expecting to get t-boned by an truck, or struck by a meteor, or have a giant eagle swoop down and fly away with the car (that might just be me). Only once have I been more terrified whilst at the wheel of the car which was this;

On a return journey we'd stopped to get ripped off at a toll booth. Whilst re-mortgaging the house for the  honour of driving through a tunnel I pointed out a mini-digger on a trailer in a neighbouring lane. The Boy loves diggers. Anyway, because I had Kids on board and therefore had to drive at the speed of glaciation, the truck with the digger on the back left the tolls before me. I thought no more about it until a short while later when the digger was literally flying through the air towards my car. The trailer had lost a tyre and thrown the digger straight up in the air and while everything went slow-motion and surreal as I swerved out of its way the Boy took this opportunity to say

"Look, dad! There's that digger again!"

As if was an every day occurrence. I failed to respond to this other than to say "shitshitshitshitshitshitshit."

The most you can hope for is a dull, mind-numbing journey because the alternatives are tantrums (bad), drawing on the roof lining (very bad) or vomit on the back of your head (I simply don't have the words). Yes, vomit on the back of the head. Whilst driving. And trust me, dads - when that happens you're the one person who doesn't get sympathy. And don't you dare suggest Eye Spy either because I'll quite happily track you down and run you over (assuming I haven't got the Kids in the car.) Have you ever played Eye Spy with a five year old and a three year old? At the risk of spoiling the suspense for you, the answers are always; "sky", "road" or "car." I've had dental work more fun than that.

*For non-Brits - Jeremy Kyle is like Jerry Springer but with far, far less class. Imaging smearing excrement on your television. Its a bit like that but with adverts.

Pants on Fire

Which one of these is not a lie?

1. Genesis front man Phil Collins invented the Vienetta ice-cream whilst at catering college
2. Jehovah Witnesses do not believe in the moon because "it's pagan"
3. The name Samantha is derived from the Latin word for "aircraft"

Answers at the end of this blog.

I'm a big fan of recreational lying. Not for any malicious or sinister reasons, simply because its fun to see what you can get people to believe. This isn't to test the how gullible people are, I only lie to intelligent people. What I like to do is think of a ridiculous "fact" such as; "The reason the water goes down the plughole in the opposite direction south of the equator is because the bottom half of the Earth spins in the opposite direction to the top." I then deliver said "fact" with confidence and authority to see if perfectly intelligent, rational people will believe it. And they often do. I once had an entire department at work discussing the amazing fact that polar bear hair is actually black based on the fact that; "its really shiny and it reflects the snow." 

"What a card," you're thinking. I know. At work I'm something of a cult. At least, that's what it sounds like they say. Since I'm an appalling parent, I've taken to do this with the Kids. Only last night at bath time I told the Boy that there had been a mistake on his birth certificate and he had to be a girl from now on.

"For real?"

"Sorry, kiddo. Its true."

"But I've got short hair!"

"We're going to let it grow long and put you one of the Girl's dresses."

"That's stupid! It won't fit!"

I love his sense of priority there.

Watching the Boy learning to lie has been quite the eye opener. I'm thinking of getting a training grant from the government because, to put it mildly, he's rubbish at it. In fact, he only began lying once he started school. Previous to this he answered every question with total (and often comic) candidness.

"Boy? Why is the Girl crying?"

"I kicked her in the head."

This progressed to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"I don't know."

"Did you kick her in the head?"

"Only once!"

Before finally getting to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"Er..." (Long pause) "She fell?"

That is pretty much as sophisticated as it gets with the Boy. Even when he tries hard he quite often catches himself out.

"Did you eat my chocolate when I told you not to?"

"Er... noooooooooo."

"Why is your face covered in chocolate?"

"I ate your chocolate."

"You ate my chocolate?!?"

"No! I didn't!"

Regardless of how bad he is, I've decided to start a zero tolerance policy to any lying. (I'm nothing if not a hypocrite) and have come up with what I think is an excellent strategy. Naturally it relies on telling an OUTRAGEOUS lie yourself, but if I say so myself, I'm a genius. And because I'm a kind genius I'm going to share this with any parents out there.

The next time your son or daughter tells you a very obvious lie, stare intently into his or her right eye and say the following words; "Aha! I know you're lying! When you lie a little light comes on in  your eye!"  For at least a while after this they'll either not lie or cover their eyes when they do. Plus, its hilarious. Its the most fun I've had with the Kids since I tried to get them to high-five one afternoon. Kept them quiet of ages because they simply couldn't manage it. Although that did backfire a bit. Eventually the Boy accidentally slapped the Girl in the face. At that point she pushed him over and sank her teeth in his bum. I had to give her a good telling off. He never wipes properly.

The Girl hasn't learnt to lie yet. She needs to learn a lot more about the world. There's still a lot of things that she doesn't really understand. A point proved this morning by the following text I got from the Wife

Girl throwing Boy's shoes down the stairs and telling cat to fetch.

Answer to question above - It was a trick question. They're all true. Honest!

Bad Dad

The other night I read a rather erstwhile blog about parenting. I seek out these things for the same reason I watch the news; to have something to shout at. This particular blogger said "There are no right ways to bring up children, but there are lots of wrong ways." This is an undeniable fact. They then went on to explain why the way they parented was THE RIGHT WAY (that was the point I started shouting.)

"Your children should be allowed to be whomever they want to be and shouldn't worry what other people think about them," the blog continued. This is a noble and right-minded way of bringing your children up. Only the insane would argue otherwise. However I've had Kids for five years now, and as the old joke goes "Insanity is heredity, you get it from your children." So I'm going to bloody well argue.

Yes, its a brilliant idea, right up until your three year old daughter won't stop crapping in her knickers and you find yourself saying "The other kids at school will think you're smelly and horrible." I said exactly these words only today. 

Clearly the author of this blog hasn't realised that my Kids are evil, and their evil is contagious. I'm not parenting, I'm in a battle of wits and I'm bloody losing.

This morning I was in a bit of a rush because I was taking them to see my mum. Typically this involved the Girl throwing an industrial grade, biblical epic of a tantrum. Lots of rolling on the floor, scratching, screaming,   trails of snot, hair stuck to her purple face. What I like to call "The full English Breakfast Tantrum." She was still throwing a tantrum when I crammed her into the car. Anyone who has every tried to get an angry child into a car seat will attest, its like getting an eel into a jar. First they go rigid as a board, which makes it absolutely impossible to get them into the seat. Fortunately I managed to get past this first line of defence by sticking a wet finger in her ear (another good tactic is to blow a raspberry on her tummy, but you risk losing your glasses - if not an eye). Then, if you get as far as getting the straps over their arms they squirm them free and try to scratch you. And if - like the Girl - they are particularly committed they somehow manage to kick you in the genitals. Which she did just as my next door neighbour came out. I find people don't get eye contact with you any more when they've seen a three year old girl beat you up.

When I finally arrived at my mum's house and got out the car, the Boy did what he always does. He undid his seatbelt and jumped on the driver's seat, leading to the following conversation

"Boy! Get off my seat, you've put muddy footprints on it!"

"Sorry."

"When we arrive somewhere, stay in your seat and get out of the car."

"Ok..." (Pause) "Hang on, I can't get out of the car if I'm still in the seat."

"No, I mean..."

"Do you mean I have to take the seat out too?"

"No. I don't know what I mean anymore."

"Well how am I supposed to know??"

Wiseass. He does this to me a lot. 

"I'm four, but my friend James is only three."

"Oh, right. When is he four?"

(As if to a fool) "On his BIRTHDAY."

Once we'd left my mum's house, leaving a trail of discarded toys, hand prints and snot stains on the carpet the Boy decided it was his turn go postal. This time it was because he didn't want the Girl to have a turn on a video game he was playing. When I handed the Girl the controller he went from Oliver Twist to Jason Vorhees, punched the Girl in the chest and then tried to bite her. 

Now the reason I say their evil is contagious is because an hour later I went outside to put the chickens to bed, and they threw a tantrum. So I found myself trapped in a chicken run re-enacting a scene from Jurassic Park as they ganged up on me. I literally have no dignity left. When I finally disentangled myself I saw the Boy at the window, crying with laughter and when I opened the back door he said

"That was brilliant! Do it again!"

As such, I've taken a parenting approach I call "Getting the revenge in beforehand." At some point in the near future the Boy will lose his first milk tooth. When this happens, we'll do what most parents in the western world do and put it under his pillow for the tooth fairy. When the Boy wakes up the next morning he will find a five pound note and a letter. We'll read the letter to him. It will say

Dear Boy,

thank you for your tooth. Here is five pounds. 

The Tooth Fairy.

P.S. I WILL BE BACK FOR THE REST TONIGHT.

Oh, by the way, if you don't know, this is Jason Vorhees.

The Boy

Mumdad Dadmum

My dad had it easy.

My mum didn't work when I was a child and as such the child rearing duties were almost entirely hers. My dad restricted him to;

• Taking me swimming
• Teaching me to ride a bike
• Taking me fishing
• Telling me off for moaning that I didn't like fishing
• Throwing my Action Man down the stairs in a fit of pique
• Trying to kill me

Now the last one might seem a bit excessive, but there's a story behind it. One day when I was ten I got to thinking about the ten commandments and how many were negative (as in "Thou shalt NOT!"). I went to my dad and, for some reason phrased the question thus;

"Dad, how many commandments are there in the ten commandments?"

This led to much mirth and merriment. He trundled off to tell my mum. He told my brother over dinner. He phone his friends to tell them. The next day he told my mum and brother again, just in case they forgot. Then he phoned some more friends. I found this somewhat irksome. So, a couple of days later, when I got my chance for revenge I took it. And how.

It was about a week later and I whilst in the kitchen I saw my dad watering the garden with the hose. It had one of those pistol grip attachments and, not realising he was being observed, he was quick-drawing it like a gun-slinger. A rather over-weight, baggy trousered gun-slinger. He did this as he worked his way to where the was a wasps nest near the pond. Even though he had his back to me I could see the moment the idea came to him. He straightened up, stretched his neck and carefully took aim at the wasps nest. When he squirted water at the nest, there was a moment's pause and then a dark cloud of wasps emerged from it. With a loud "SHIT!" the hose went up in the air, he took to his heels, ran to the back door and it was at this point he found I'd locked it. Hence the attempted murder.

He wasn't a bad father, he was a father of his time. His job was to put the food on the table, do a bit of DIY and taxi us around. He was always there for us, and he was endlessly generous. I miss him terribly. But he wasn't our mum and he really did have it easy.

Things have changed somewhat. The Wife and I both work because we have to, which means we take a split shift with the children. Because I work during the day, she spends most of the day with the Kids, and I get dinners, bath time, story, bed, homework and everything that occurs after they get back from school (mainly arguing). This situation means the Kids only see the two of us together at weekends. Consequently the Kids regularly call me "Mum er Dad."

The Girl highlighted the blurry line between Mum and Dad this evening when she wigged out as the Wife left for work. She hurled herself on the floor (the Girl, not the Wife) and screamed "I want mummy!" over and over until I asked her if she wanted a biscuit. At that point she jumped to her feet like a football player being awarded a free kick. Later, as she was having her dinner she started calling

"Where's daddy? Where's daddy gone? Has daddy gone to work? Has he?"

"No darling. I'm here."

"No. I mean daddy."

"I am daddy."

"I mean... Er..."

And, for the first time ever, she referred to the Wife by her first name. Its quite something that she got so confused she used the Wife's first name. We're not those kind of parents. As far as I'm concerned its one step down from incest. I get quite shirty about it. Then the Boy sighed and said

"You shouldn't call her <Wife's name> its... Er..." (Looking at me for confirmation) "Mummy?"

Now whilst I think my dad had it easy, I'm not suggesting parenting is harder now. It isn't. This weekend the Boy was invited to a birthday party at a bowling alley. We decided - very unwisely - to take the Girl. We figured that the Girl could spend her time on the soft play area whilst the Boy bowled with his friends. The Girl being the Girl had other ideas. She threw a tantrum when she couldn't bowl. Then the Boy generously let her have his go, and she threw a tantrum when she couldn't have everyone else's go too. At this point I dragged (and I mean literally) her off to a quiet part of the bowling alley, lay her down on the floor and distracted her by playing episodes of Peppa Pig from YouTube on my phone. I love technology.

 Mind you, five minutes later she threw a tantrum because a couple of skinheads wouldn't let her play pool with them. She made one of them cry.

Smile!

Today I came downstairs to find the Girl packed an ready to go on a holiday. She was sitting by the front door, wearing a Peppa Pig rucksack and telling me she hoped it didn't rain. Bless.

I say bless, because we're not going on holiday. She just decided she was going. She'd clearly made the decision in a rush because she'd only packed a cuddly horse, her new camera and a takeaway menu. Self catering presumably.

As every year the Kids got a wide array of robots, horses, books, cars and death rays for Christmas. The blessing was that no one bought them any percussion instruments or crying babies. These are the gifts that truly keep on giving. The Boy got a drum kit a couple of years ago. It's a testament to my patience that it took eighteen months before I accidentally put my foot through it. Equally awful, when the Girl was a couple of months old someone bought her a baby that screamed when it was squeezed. Having not slept for two months because of the Girl screaming, this gift was as welcome as a cup of cold sick.

This year the Kids were bought toy digital cameras. For months the Boy has been filling my iPod up with a myriad pictures of either the fireplace, him sticking his tongue out or, disturbingly, my arse. So it seemed like a good idea. However, on the way to their Nan's house today the Boy kept taking pictures of the back my head and every time the flash went off I thought I'd gone through a speed trap. Annoying as this was, it was quite amusing when both of them papparatzied my mum on her doorstep and whilst she was dazzled, the Boy head butted her in the groin.

To the Boy a head butt to the fanacklepans is a whole new level of hilarious comparable with the physical comedy of Harold Lloyd. Nothing he likes more than to hear me say; "Not in the- OOF!!"

This is possibly because for two years he's been making up jokes that, on the whole, aren't funny and has now converted to slapstick. I'm not being harsh. I'm not. You spend two years being barraged with;

"Why did the turkey cross the road?"

"Because it was on fire!"

*Literally wets himself laughing*

Or

"Why did the pigeon fall out of the tree?"

"I don't know."

"Because it flew into a sign. Earlier, I mean. I should have said that bit first."

It drives you mental. In two years he's said two jokes that have made me laugh. And I'm being generous about the first one.

"Whats fat and sticky?"

"A fat stick!"

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Me, stupid!"

The Girl, ever her own person, doesn't do jokes. She simply laughs, randomly and surprisingly aggressively. She once did this to me whilst I was dozing on the sofa. To compound matters she was holding the Boy's toy chainsaw. I made a noise you normally only hear when little girls have spiders thrown at them.

I tell a lie. The Girl has come up with one joke, which I shall leave you with. Please note, this is verbatim.

"Blah blah blah blah blah blah. Say 'I don't know', mummy... SAY IT!"

"Er... I don't know, Girl."

"BECAUSE HE DID A MASSIVE BLOW OFF!"

Sleep

Parents are unbelievably annoying people

People without kids might be nodding at this because they already know where I'm going. So allow me to uncloud the eyes of all the parents out there by asking you a question.

Have you ever found yourself responding to something a friend has said with; "Pah! Wait till you have kids"?

The only truthful answer to this is "yes", in which case you're an annoying shit. But don't worry, so am I. We just have to live with that. It's one of the burdens of parenthood. That and higher depreciation on our cars because of crisps in the seats and crayon on the roof lining. Oh, and decreased sex-drive. I'll move on from this before I fail to remember why I had children...

Anyway, since you parents will have said this dreary line. I'll make another prediction. I'll bet you used this phrase when someone said; "Man, I'm tired. I didn't sleep very well last night."

Nothing drives a non-breeder crazier than that. As if you have to have kids to truly understand the meaning of sleep deprivation. Clearly that's ridiculous. However, I've been racking my brain to come up with something that adequately describes having a newborn baby that won't sleep. The only words that come to mind is; "GET BACK OR I'LL JUMP!!!"

Before I had the Kids, I was an insomniac. Since I've had the Kids I've become narcoleptic. These days if I sit on a sofa without something to do (like writing this) there's a good chance I'll be snoring within ten minutes. Its safe to assume that on evenings when there isn't a blog entry here I've probably fallen asleep before I've thought of a topic, and dribbled into the keyboard. My body seems to work on the principle that, even if I can't "bank" sleep, I'll give it a bloody good go.

I will say here and now that we are very lucky, the Boy and Girl go to bed between six and seven (yes, that's right), sleep between twelve and thirteen hours, rarely complain when they go to bed, rarely wake us up in the middle of the night. You might think that I'm a bit smug about that, and you'd be right. It's taken five years to get to this point. Things were not always this way.

For the first three weeks of the Boy's life he slept for a maximum of two hours at a time. This meant that the Wife and I took it in shifts through the night and averaged about four hours sleep per night, which can have an impact on your sanity. (At this point in the story people often say to me; "Margaret Thatcher only slept for three hours a night." A good point, except the woman currently thinks she's a gerkin.)

Initially this lack of sleep was a bit of a novelty. I watched a lot of DVD boxed sets, I got a lot of reading done. The novelty lasted three days.  On day three I vanished and was only discovered when the Wife heard me crying. In the toilet. Whilst asleep. Later that day I found myself suggesting quite seriously that the Wife "put him back in until he stops crying." Turns out it was a feeding issue which took three weeks to resolve before he started sleeping about five hours at a time. By the end of those three weeks both the Wife and I were clinically insane. For instance, that first night he started sleeping properly we were so unused to him being quiet for that long we kept checking to see if he was still breathing. I chose to do this first by watching his chest, then holding a mirror to his face and finally by poking him until he woke up and started crying. Because that seemed logical at the time. Naturally, the Wife thought this was somewhat counter productive, which she explained with a right hook.

It is impossible to be a rational human being when you've just been woken up for the fifth time in a night. At two in the afternoon it's much easier to accept that babies can't tell you what's wrong than it is at two in the morning. At two in the morning shouting "GO TO SLEEP!" seems like a sensible response to a crying baby. At two in the morning using a bottle steriliser will, more often than not, lead to you melting your face off. At two in the morning you will attempt to bottle feed your child without actually being awake at any point and not notice you're pushing the teat up the poor little sod's nose.

All of which assumes you lost the battle of "who can pretend to be asleep longest?" The usual ritual in our house is that the loser has to fling back the covers, snarl "Fine!" before stomping off and trying to be comforting whilst livid.

The only way I managed to get through of this was that once I'd been woken up I'd never expect to get back to sleep again. And that worked quite well. Because I didn't sleep for three years.