I was going to write a wonderfully upbeat post, full of plans for the new year. I don't make resolutions but I like making plans, having goals.
I am so tired.
Since a week or so before Christmas, Wrigglesworth has been suddenly suffering from a nostalgie de la nuit. Clearly missing those early months when night and day were merely artificial concepts for which he had no use. Last night he woke us five times. That's one feed and four screaming fits. Four long screaming fits.
This morning I feel like hell on toast. Strangely, as Katie pointed out, I don't look like hell on toast. Most irritating. I would like my pain to be visible to the world. Instead I will have to broadcast it on my blog. The last couple of weeks feel like a lifetime. Neither the fella nor I can take much more. If someone could tell us when this will end we could perhaps accept our fate but from our bleary eyed perspective, not knowing, feeling as if this could go on forever, is torturous.
How am I supposed to even think about, let alone put into action any of my plans when my brain is in a permanent state of mush?
Lucky for Owen he's so damn cute. But, Monsieur mini Canteau, our nostalgie de la nuit is, believe us, much stronger than yours so beware, or your fate might resemble that of le petit poucet, as hilariously told by Florence Foresti (apologies to anyone who doesn't understand French).