Here's a picture of some sort of spotty cat. H took it. I don't know how it's relevant to this post. Can't you draw some kind of connection? Why must I do all the work on the this blog?
My friends and family: My parents are regularly accepting an underslept May Blossom being dropped off at their house at 7 am by her dad on the way to work, while I catch up on an hour’s sleep. They are also dropping by with cups of coffee and being hugely supportive of this ridiculous endeavour of ours (parenting). My big brother is being great too: lots of visits and playing with May Blossom, though we will gloss over the part where he taught her a karate-like move called the ‘Tomahawk Chop’, which was all very cute and funny until sleep deprivation made her brain go funny and she started using it on people. No more Tomahawk Chop.
Our friends are sending messages of love and support and strength; one sat with me, made me turn off the baby monitor, and talked to me of things better and worse than my own life one evening while H resettled MB for an hour.
Facebook: Reconnecting with people I haven’t seen for years, but with whom I share the burden/blessing of a sleep-resistant child, has been a true joy and a source of huge comfort.
H: This man is heroic. He lost his father two weeks ago and now he is dealing with less sleep than ever. Less, even, than when May Blossom was a newborn. And now she’s a toddler who, having been evicted from our bed, is dealing with 12 hours less mummy-cuddling time than she has ever had. Not surprisingly, she is treating him somewhat unkindly during the night, on account of him being the Lactose-Free Parent. He is bearing up remarkably. It was, therefore, both unkind and stupid of me to ask him to put up a new blind yesterday, and for that I am very sorry. Blinds are the devil’s work even at the best of times. There’s a reason H and his friend once drafted a children’s book called ‘The Fuckedest Blind’.
Coffee: This clever liquid might be the reason May Blossom is still living in our house and not on the church doorstep across the road. I don’t drink much of it, but what I do drink is very, very important. The kind and tolerant man who runs the tiny café May Blossom and I frequent understands the huge importance of his role in my life, always makes my coffee a good one, and shows a remarkable tolerance for the Tomahawk-Chopping antics of my most darling little muddleheaded wombat.