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Pre-coffee parenting


My least and most liked things in one scrawled swoop, more doodles here.

It's wondrous stuff isn't it, coffee? Small knows the rule in our house- don't talk to mum until she's on cup #2. Parenting goes wonderfully well until that glorious cup, along the lines of- don't eat that, look at those tiny pieces that will occupy your hamfists being fished out of the rug, Shhhh. YOU KNOW THE RULE KID.


Made it to the seaside, ruminating the not-holiday of last year. She still doesn't get the whole wet sand / sinking child dichotomy, could have ended worse than it did. Naturally she was angry at times, I'd have been disappointed if I'd had to buy occasionallyatwat.com instead.


 

Small has awoken beautifully, after what was quite likely the loveliest playdate she's had recently. I was horrendously late naturally, after waging war with Ikea over botanical disasters (meaning that, in pure British fashion, I sent a passive aggressive tweet airing my disgruntled customer experience- immediate reply, kudos!).

It's not like I have been doing my training in Wakefield for 3 years almost, and that I should know my whereabouts at all. I drove quite happily blindly following the sat nav vaguely dubious as to the destination. No, I have not yet seen the signs for the M1. 
Wrong postcode, nice one dickhead.

Still, in much need of my second coffee (yes, I attempted what to my tired mind and tin pugmobile was the equivalent of a round the world trip, on one coffee), and other outdoor activities... the tiny twat and bustling tornado met. And got naked, as being 3 gives one the privilege of doing so freely. One does wonder how there would be any indecence to be exposed after the rapid development of a Christmas Shelf. Humbugs indeed. 


I'm that parent as of last night, sockless welly-wearing, pirate-pilfered, chicken-keeping child. Fast asleep, prising McNuggets from her sweaty grip at ten past too late o'clock



I need to clean, in the way that a fish needs gin and homeless people need Brexit. My tired mind is insisting I sit today. Festive sitting is good. Alas, a distinct world apart from the usual mirth of a Monday morning, I fear my writing skills are somewhat lacking of late. It may be the recently acquired attention span of a toddler or the thought of my minds eye having gone on a wander of late that's doing it but I miss the joy of being in my study dearly. 

2018 has been full of excitement, opportunities and beautiful moments. Isn't that the Instagram quote post template? (I'm guilty of this too, as I fall from the highest of horses here).



Nah, this year I've eaten too much, smoked and drank too much and worked too damn hard. It's frequently been a mess (at times including myself), but I've many things to be grateful for:

  1. Kept both Small and I alive;
  2. Learned a shit-ton about myself and how, who and why about the little things;
  3. Did a good job in my training so far, helping some wonderful families;
  4. Reinforced some wonderful friendships;
  5. That Small is verging on being socialised (sans bells too, win!).



I resolve to hit 2019 eating cheese, drinking gin, and being safe, sane and studious.

That will do for now. 

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