In those early days of motherhood, time ruled everything—day and night. It consumed me.
Every single task, outing, thought, and action revolved around time.
For someone who hates numbers (I still boycott a café down south because the barista once quizzed me on a maths question before handing over my coffee—rude, I was probably hungover), time became an obsession in my postpartum period. And to be fair, it still is.
My son was born six weeks early. That meant three weeks in the NICU, with endless numbers and milestones to hit. And it didn’t stop once we got home.
Three-hour cycles of feeding, pumping, sterilising. Clock-watching for tired signs (how is a first-time mum supposed to know all these cues?). Timing every breastfeed, anxiously stopping the app each time he latched and unlatched—because if it wasn’t documented correctly, how would I know if he was full? The time it took to put the shield on before he lost his temper. The minutes I had to sleep between feeds. The time for a shower before the phantom screams started. The endless cycle of nappies, settling, reflux episodes, medication schedules, and the time we didn’t get with a happy, settled baby.
I remember sitting on the bed in the spare room with a screaming baby, hearing the Riff Raff go through cycle after cycle.
Forty. Bloody. Minutes.
And he was still screaming or squirming.
I can’t look at a Riff Raff with fondness now—it was just a loud reminder that my baby wasn’t sleeping and nothing I did was working. I often explained it as waiting for a bomb to go off. Constantly anticipating the next explosion of emotions, from both myself and the baby.
We became a strict schedule family, even though it didn’t magically improve his sleep or overall disposition. But it gave me something to hold onto—a sense of control in a world that felt anything but controlled. If the day went off the rails, at least I still had two things: eating as many hot cross buns as I wanted and wearing activewear every day to feel put together.
We’re still a strict schedule family, and sadly, I’m still not one of those go-with-the-flow mums. My child doesn’t sleep in the car, but come 11 a.m., he knows it’s nap time and happily goes down during the day (we’re still working hard on the PM sleep—when do you get a medal for counting on one hand the number of times your almost-two-year-old has slept through the night?). Life is better with routine. I crave it. I feel completely off balance when it’s thrown out, so I suppose my small tyrant may be the same.
P.S. If Riff Raff is just a cute toy in your house and not the miracle sleep aid it claims to be, check out the Lulla Doll. It plays all night (no more 40-minute cycles ending mid-bounce), and their customer service is incredible. Worth a look—especially if you're desperate.