After the singularly worst 24 hour period with the newest little tacker so far, he redeemed himself slightly last night be self-settling at 7pm and sleeping until 12. I went to bed at 9pm (after getting the rest of the tribe to bed, cleaning up from dinner etc), which means… that’s right people, I had three THREE! consecutive hours sleep last night. That’s a first in about five weeks.
When we first moved in to this house with my mum, she didn’t have a kitchen upstairs, so she generally ate with us. I figured that considering I was at home (Felix was about 6 weeks old when we moved) and she was working, that was the least I could do.
Without fail, every single meal received a comment. Not a compliment. A comment.
Not enough salt. I like butter with my mashed potatoes. I like my chops cooked right through. I prefer my sausages cut in half and cooked. There’s a lot of ginger in this isn’t there. And so on and so forth.
It kinda kills any residual wondering as to why I was FUCKING SUICIDAL doesn’t it.
I hadn’t really thought about her tendency to do this for quite some time. A nice little gem of traumatic memory loss no doubt.
And then this week she went to someone’s house and had a delicious passionfruit slice. She got the recipe from the person so I made it as a surprise for her tonight and got Oscar to take her up a little tray after dinner.
She came downstairs and you want to know what she said?
“The base was a lot more ‘coconutty’ that when I had it the other day.”
Shall I take bets as to how loud you think my internal GET FUCKED scream was?
Tomorrow we drive for two hours to my Dad and stepmother’s to surprise him for his birthday (on Tuesday) and Father’s Day (next Sunday).
I offered to make the cake because that’s what I do and he is my dad.
So when I’m making it tonight, mum asks (as she’s downstairs telling me that the slice is too fucking coconutty) what I’m doing.
I tell her.
She does the whole, oh you’re so exhausted why are you doing that?
(Um it’s my Dad…)
This is despite the fact that when I asked if she had anything in mind for dinner, as she’s developed this FUCKING ANNOYING habit at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon of telling me she’s got a roast for dinner, when I’ve already made/am in the process of making dinner.
My brother and niece are staying here this weekend so that’s why I was asking. I was about to go to the shops to get an eggplant for Jamie Oliver’s divine eggplant pasta sauce.
Are you still with me?
Rivetting is my life.
I indicated that if she wasn’t I was making pasta, which she interpreted as pasta for everyone.
So for some reason it is completely acceptable for poor exhausted kimmy to be cooking dinner for the whole GODDAMN universe but absolutely ridiculous for me to be making a cake for my father’s birthday and father’s day.
And the divorce was? TWENTY YEARS AGO.
Yep, no residual there whatsoever.
And yes, I know I am still just a tad sleep deprived and cranky.
Today was the last soccer match of the season.
Let no more be said on the matter.
You’ve Got Mail is on tonight and I am very pleased.
I may be craft-retarded and think scrapbooking is a national crime and worthy of imprisonment after you’ve been forced to watch your crimping scissors crushed by some bit threatening machine, but I am an absolute sucker for a romantic comedy with Meg Ryan.
And her hair ROCKS in this movie.
Speaking of hair, I am SO over mine.
I dreamt last night that I found a big rusty pair of scissors and cut it off in random chunks. Feeling liberated and elated with each snip.
I was also naked and standing to the side of a McDonald’s drive through, which you can draw from what you wish.
After the horror 24 hour hours I took some quiet time with my bible.
Some facts that have lifted my spirits:
– the night sweats are because of my low estrogen, necessary for breast milk production
– the sharp stabbing shooting pains in my breasts are because I had sharp stabbing shoorting pains in my breasts before I was pregnant or lactating
– I fall into the category of ‘some women’ who suffer chronic mastitis. So the chills, shivers and depression I’m feeling at least four nights a week is me teetering on the brink of fully blown mastitis which, I quote, “strikes like lightening”.
– babies from 0-6 months generally take 20 minutes to settle to sleep. Since reading this, every single sleep Grover has had (whether it’s a catnap or a couple of hours) that has rung true.
– I have a choice as to how I spend that 20 minutes. I can put him down and tolerate some crying, I can carry him around, I can rock, pat and sing and so on. I am taking option 1. I leave him for 1-2 minutes if he’s crying, pick him up and comfort until perfectly calm and put him back down. Repeat if necessary. It is working a t.r.e.a.t.
– I am just reminded of what an absolute godsend this woman is.
That said, I still bought a vodka cruiser, (ok two, I bought two. Shut up.) when I went to the supermarket to buy the eggplant…
hence the title.