A letter to my tired self

Dear tired self,

It’s been a long year, but the last week feels like the longest. 

Sleep has been nigh on non existent and the children have been really full on. 

A twoligan who has developed a dickish tendency to ignore everything you say whilst running around throwing toys all over the place, as if to create a super fun assault course of stuff for you to trip over.

A teething baby who plasters herself from head to toe in crap every time she ‘goes off’ and can’t possibly let you out of her sight as although she’s enjoying all the foods, she’s worried that the boobs are off the menu. 

A husband that’s trying really, really hard to understand why you’re being such an arsehole – and in turn, trying not to be a massive twat himself.

Gather up all your ridiculous notions of having time to yourself, not having to repeat yourself 1,000,000 times a day, not feeling generally haggard and throw them out of the fucking window as those days are gone for now.

Stop torturing yourself and let them go. 

Instead try to enjoy the little things more.

The laughter, dimples and crinkled noses. The impromptu singing and dancing. Baking. Painting. Looking at bugs.

Try to enjoy it all more through the haze of your exhaustion as one day you’ll wake up, refreshed and rested – and it’ll all be over.

Gone in the blink of an eye.

For now, sit back, drink your coffee and pray that when you put the baby down she’ll stay asleep.  

Mentally prepare your ninja skills. If it works, do a silent dance then pass out yourself.

All something and no something makes mummy something, something 👍🏻

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