And thank you, autocorrect, for believing that what I really wanted to call this post was "The thugs we make time for." believe me, that's a whole different nappy of mystery.
So when I'm not gazing adoringly at the small person who inexplicably evolved from a couple of cells and got unceremoniously evicted from my body, I'm sleeping. Or eating.
Actually, reverse the order of those. And feeding, expressing, nappy-changing, tea-making...
I actually fend off help hanging out the washing because it's the one tangible success of my day. (btw, the cloth nappies are working beautifully. Bambooty are making me a happy, slightly less environmentally catastrophic event).
Hence my amazement that I can't quite get it together to color my hair but I could totally get changed, manipulate feeding a little (wake up! You have to feed NOW!) and get to ballet class. My joy was slightly marred by the physio-in-the-class stating I really shouldn't do anything high-impact for three months (seriously? It's been four weeks and I'm stir-crazy; take those endorphins away for three months and I'll need a prescription), but the only sweat I broke was because I stubbornly refused to take off my outer layer. Nursing clips are really not the sartorial standard for ballet class.
Little miss A was suitably engaged, staring about in the complete realization that all the rocking and bumping she felt to THAT music was her incipient mother jumping/spinning around like an idiot. I'm going to put the brief upset down to the fact that she wanted to DO the fouettés.
Ballet class: win.