It’s 9.30pm. Now is meant to be my time. Kids are meant to be in bed at 8:00pm, leaving me a precious couple of hours to… have a tea and read or watch something.
Sky didn’t get the memo.
I put her to bed at the usual time and she cried on and off. I picked her up and she squealed happily. I put her back to bed and she cried on and off. I picked her up again and she squealed happily.
So now, this:
No writing about my toddler’s favourite iPhone apps, or how I feel like I haven’t had a day off work since forever, or how I had a cafe breakfast yesterday for the first time in ages and it was fantastic, or how I wish I’d done cloth nappies, or how I’ve been thinking about what my perfect dream home would be… instead, I have a squealing-happy-very-awake-baby on me. And she doesn’t want to be ignored. And now it’s 11:00pm.
Apparently she wants to watch Netflix trailers.