The mashed potato cure


Today the exhaustion came. Like a physical wave. Like a giant finger, poking me in the face. A massive, watery finger that wanted my face to suffer. That’s right.

It was raining hard, too, and Henry was on usual hyperkinetic form, so I shuffled around in the morning strewing his path with toys and trying to find the right tone of voice for reading ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’. Even I could tell I wasn’t very convincing.

Come on, woman, I thought. You are showered and dressed. You are wearing makeup, and earrings that Henry has only pulled once. Your hair looks alright. There’s no sickness haunting your stomach lining yet. Buck up.

I really tried. I switched on the computer with the vague idea of finding a radio programme to cheer me up. And lo and behold, who was waiting for me on the first page, moustaches jauntily askew? My dear pretend-grandpa comfort blanket, Monsieur Poirot. I listened to him solving a polite fifties murder in Devon while I made lunch, then ate a metric ton of mashed potatoes and half a pint of gravy, then slept while Henry slept, and felt much better.

In the afternoon we went to visit an old lady in hospital, and talked catheters and nighties and hot flush medicine for half an hour. Theeeese are a few of my faaaaavourite things! It would’ve been a longer visit, except Henry got over-excited at the change of scene, and bellowed ‘WHHHHOOOOOOAAAA’ into the face of another ancient lady across the way for about ten minutes. When she started showing signs of shellshock, we made our dignified exit. On the way out, I realised I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet today.

This was a day for winners.

other baby posts: 1. – 2. – 3. – 4. – 5. – 6. – 7. – 8. – 9. – 10.

Talk to me! I'll put the kettle on.

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