‘I feel like I will never have a normal life, ever again’, I tweeted this evening. ‘THIS MEANS DOUGHNUTS’. I was tired and fretting about feeding and, to be honest with you, a little bit upset about Richard III. And when you want to write something dramatic and negative, dear friends, it is always, always best to put it on Twitter. Send it out into the gentle cosmic embrace of the Twitterverse and you only have the potential of annoying a handful of people* instead of several hundred (cough-Facebook-drama-cough).
*if you are not famous. I am not, it’s cool.
Twitter always comes through for me in these situations. Because when I say ‘normal life’, I mean the sort of life where I might conceivably sit outside a restaurant in warm air, laughing all gaily and tossing my hair back, you know. I looked back at the last few months of tweets and realised that this is no more inaccessible than it was before. It’s pretty inaccessible. But not impossible. Oddly, this was a comfort.
Also, the mystery of why many, many pounds of my pregnancy weight have not melted away by themselves like wisps in the wind is solved. There’s a lot of food-talk here. A LOT.
I just told my toddler that brushing his teeth is part of the rich tapestry of life. Need better excuses.
‘5 fast foods you can enjoy in pregnancy’, said the article. I got all excited. #1 was fruit. #2 was raisins. I stopped reading.
Broke a necklace 5hrs ago. Just undressed and found 28, yes TWENTY-EIGHT beads on my person. Geez, pregnancy. #streamlined #likeafish
Unnecessarily High-Brow Award for today goes to my iPhone, which just autocorrected ‘of’ to ‘oxymoron’. As you do.
Watching French-dubbed MacGyver. Even translation cannot diminish the holy power of that mullet.
Controlled crying pt 2. Put yo hands in the air if you’re drinking undiluted grenadine sirop straight from the bottle. Holla.
It’s really quite tricky to get peanut butter and jam on the same spoon without cross contamination in the jars. Luckily I’m a hard worker.
@mrjeffcoat started using Instagram. So proud. I’ll save my celebratory balloons for when he first grams his lunch, or a sunset.
…extra points if the lunch is vegan/organic/on a gingham tablecloth/accompanied only by the caption ‘Lunch’ #reasonsIloveInstagram
Can’t I attend playgroup without being interrogated about H’s special skills? Oh, your kid counts to seven, does he? He can say pig, CAN HE?
Hey, guess what, Henry’s training to be a ninja. It’s a secret but you forced it out of me. You win on the saying pig thing though, congrats.
Me: he seems excited. Is he talking to you?
@mrjeffcoat: no, he’s singing to a glue stick.
Watching David Attenborough narrate slug-mating to inappropriately emotional music. It’s a ‘strange balletic relationship’. Feel indecent.
Me: Is this WHOLE show about bug sex?
@mrjeffcoat: I’ll skip it on ten minutes.
Mr Attenborough: ‘the male extends his rod…’
Me: NO NO NO
you are not hungry you are thirsty you are not hungry you are thirsty no not for coke for water yes water no honestly <– my brain on 11am
Some days I miss James Blunt’s first album like a knife blade in my heart. Yeah, I don’t know. [PMS]
Of course seven-month-pregnant women can have PMS. Haven’t you met one?
Henry is crying because, I think, it’s naughty to draw on cupboards (I didn’t bring it up; he did.)
Or possibly grapes. Just because grapes.
So good to me/
It was when my kid used a lamp as a fireman’s pole and crashed it into his face!
In short, I am eating a pop tart. Or twelve.
Hen can say ‘golly’. Stage one of Raise an Enid Blyton Child: complete. Now for condensed milk and smugglers.
I will, of course, be omitting the casual racism.
Documentary just started with ‘imagine everything that ever happened’. Cripes, it’s only twenty to ten. Give me a min.
I won’t tell you what drinking liquid Gaviscon is like. Oh, ok, I will: it’s like drinking minty spit.
Shopping app just asked whether I wanted to post my grocery list to Twitter. Um, no. My apples aren’t that interesting. #notaeuphemism
Ok, that’s it. Who do I pay to invent a bed with a hole in it, so I can sleep on my front? GRAVITY SAYS YES. #pregnancy #8monthssucks
You know that David Bowie dancing scene in A Knight’s Tale? You know. With Heath Ledger’s hair. Hotter than the sun, I mean it.
I’d forgotten that it’s possible to be this tired without being dead. UNLESS I AM? Bruce Willis, show yourself.
Wait, wait, it wouldn’t still be this hot if I were dead. Cancel the Bruce.
I am coming for you, outside-restaurant-with-hair-tossing. Gimme a few weeks. I am coming.