As ever, I put the 'read more' link below as a sort of safeguard for people who read my intro and decide that they don't want to go further. There shall be talk of Norman Conquest England, trampolines, miscarriages, self-indulgence and poor parenting. Expect rumination on lack of sex and the like, because I am somewhat self-obsessed.
|What more could I add.|
Earlier that day I had arranged with the Girlie to go shopping for Mother's Day but she threw a strop and it ended up being just the Boy and I after a number of earlier shopping errands whilst Tilly nursemaided a Girlie who was by turns stropping and complaining of illness and a Boy with purple bags under his eyes (the Girlie thought Saturday was Mother's Day and had woken the Boy at 5am to come and surprise Mummy - I had only just managed to intercept but too late to stop them waking Tilly - and we all know how that pans out). I'd had an energy drink. I was thus tired, irritable and grumpy.
What was the Girlie thinking?
|Oh, yes, Maz is a doula. And a damn'|
In amongst all of this carry on, I did manage to kiss my wife, who seemed to enjoy it. However, afterward stated that she felt ill and could I please not try to hug, hold hands, kiss or anything else. So I remain dejected.
I mean, there's serious shit with the whole miscarriage thing, I know, and mountains of emotional baggage to wade through. And the early mornings and the Girlie's strops and the cleaning of shit. I guess I deal with things differently. I always do, truth be told.
Oh, I don't know what I'm writing any more.