And so, Isla is nearly two. I’m finding this harder to deal with than last year. But I’m hoping she’ll let me share her cake. That’ll help, yeah?
In related news, Neil and I recently celebrated three years of marriage with a seafood dinner and the same message he’s been writing in all my cards for nearly seven years. And just so he knows: You’re welcome, Dude. The pleasure (and heartburn) is all mine.
In my absence from blogging, there’s been a lot of Peppa Pig, and library trips. And ‘Isla, sit forward, please.’ Netflix and very little chill. Gotta work on that.
But Isla’s good. She says ‘peas’ and ‘tank you’ and ‘beshew’ when people sneeze. And fart. She loves to read and then pile all her books on you.
She has her father’s eyes and her mother’s sarcasm.
Last week, we were counting pennies for the
piggy bank fart tin.
‘One, two, three, six,’ she says.
‘How much are you?’
‘Too much!’ she says.
True enough, I thought. But keep going, kiddo.
She’s funny and smart and she grows in her sleep. I cry every time she leaves the house without me. Even when she brings me home flowers. Because she brings me home flowers. And coffee.
Isla knows that I’m fuelled by coffee and hugs and Judge Judy.
Isla sleeps better than I do these days. She sleeps through the night and I don’t. I do my best worrying, and reading, at 4 in the morning.
I distract myself from swirling thoughts by reading and taking pictures of my books and messaging friends to ask, ‘why am I awake at 4am?’
I also yell at The Gilmore Girls and The Batchelor. I yell things like:
- You’re a dick. Don’t be a dick.
B. Does anyone ever not accept the rose? No, say no. Don’t stoop.
iii. Well. That was awkward.
D. Why am I watching The Batchelor?
And then it’s not 4am anymore, it’s 9. And Isla, who now sleeps in a real bed, shuffles through and it starts all over again.
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