Waking up is an absolute pleasure.
The sound that stirs me from my slumber is a soft, high-pitched retching sound as my 12 week old baby sucks on her hand so hard that her fingers reach the back of her throat.
We tried for many years to have a baby so the sound of a baby possetting first thing in the morning is music to my ears. That, however, is a long story and I'll leave it for another blog, another day.
Once we're up Harriet plays on her baby gym while I fix my breakfast and sterilise "the pump". This morning breakfast took a little longer as the toaster was set to stun, for some reason. I like my toast toasted so the bread, which had only been mildly startled, had to go back in for another bout.
It looked very browned off when I eventually took it out and needed some serious buttering up before it would join me for breakfast.
I don't know how I do it, but most mornings I manage to feed myself and Harriet at the same time as expressing milk and checking my emails. I generally finish breakfast more proud of myself than is probably warranted, but until the Smug Police feel my collar, I'll continue to chance my arm on that score.
There are days when it all goes pear-shaped and Harriet and I are both in tears, in pyjamas at lunchtime. My toast- rubbery; her milk- proving just as rubbery as it keeps bouncing back.
On the whole though, we're getting more efficient as a family and enjoy every new development. Again, until the Boys in Beige* knock on my door I'm just going to go on sitting here letting off the faint stench of self-satisfaction. If that's a bad thing, well as crimes go it's a small one and (here's a sad image) as I'm only ever bumptious on my own I'll apologise to no one for it.
*Beige is such a smug colour, don't you think?
No comments:
Post a Comment