As I write this Plog, I am desperately trying to con the baby into taking an afternoon nap, a habit she grew out of about three months ago. From the video monitor, I can see she isn't playing ball. In fact, she's sitting bolt upright in her cot, blissfully unaware that Mummy is spying on her, and she hasn't looked more alert for the best part of a week.
The thing is, and you're totally not supposed to say this, I need ten minutes. Why do I need ten minutes? Well, it's been a trying couple of days.
The baby alarm went off yesterday at 6.30 a.m. - I mustn't complain. This is a relative lie-in compared to where we were a month ago. TheBloke (TM) and I got up, and I felt even more dreadful than usual. I suspected tiredness and suspected it would pass, but there was a persistent nausea.
The nausea lasted until the baby decided to do the world's most massive, stinky poo. The type that's so massive and so liquid, it leaves patches on your hardwood floors, which need to be Dettoled immediately. I can hear what you're asking - "How come the nausea passed then? If anything, I would imagine it would worsen."
Indeed. The nausea passed because it quickly turned to uncontrollable vomiting. This is less fun than it sounds when you're trying to change a wiggly baby covered in poo on a waist-height changing table.
Fast forward eight hours or so. It's 2 a.m. I decide to get up for a bit more vomiting, because that's just the sort of person I am. After driving the porcelain bus for half an hour or so, I pop my head in to check on the baby who is - yes - covered in vomit. As is Toby Bear and all her sheets.
I change them all. Toby Bear goes in the washing machine. We all go back to bed.
This morning, Monty Cat decides to help. He's hardly a predator. In his whole ginger furry life he has caught:
- a moth
- a spider, which he accidentally stood on and then looked horrified
- a paintbrush.
So of course today would be the day when he turns killer, with a fresh (though admittedly less-fresh-by-the-moment) pigeon left on our lawn. To be fair, it might not have been him. It might have been one of his cat friends helping him to look hard. But believe me, the poos and vomits I've been dealing with recently (and of course, those I've been doling out myself), I do not have the stomach for dead grouse unless it comes with a jus of some description and is served in an overpriced French restaurant.
I will let that be a little welcome-home present for TheBloke (TM) when he gets back from work. I'm nice like that.
So yes, I need ten minutes. Which are now up. I hope you appreciate it.