(no subject)
There are bad days. Bad days involve little sleep and a lot of screamings (of which a percentage is generated by me, a few hours in). On bad days I get so frustrated I end up punching sofa cushions and chanting things like: "Why do you hate me, why?" and telling my pre-verbal baby how cross I feel.
And there are the good days. Days that involve long naps, and gurgling, and cuddling on the sofa with one sleepy warm baby and three zonked out purry cats, watching films I'd recorded earlier. Sometimes if the baby feels sociable afterwards we look together at all the bright colours in HEAT magazine. There are even days when the baby is awake and content to suck on his hand in his Moses basket long enough for me to post to LJ.
Although each bad day feels like a rite of passage in which a stick is forcefully applied to one's head, the good days are so golden that I want to stretch them out forever.
And there are the good days. Days that involve long naps, and gurgling, and cuddling on the sofa with one sleepy warm baby and three zonked out purry cats, watching films I'd recorded earlier. Sometimes if the baby feels sociable afterwards we look together at all the bright colours in HEAT magazine. There are even days when the baby is awake and content to suck on his hand in his Moses basket long enough for me to post to LJ.
Although each bad day feels like a rite of passage in which a stick is forcefully applied to one's head, the good days are so golden that I want to stretch them out forever.