Miss Polly Had A Dolly Who Was Sick, Sick, Sick

She's ill, and she's sleeping, and I've drugged her up good. She's refusing to eat all her usual food. She's snotty, and whingy, and restless, and weak; she's tiring, and loathsome - she's been like this all week.

I'm thinking of drinking; I'm trying some wine. If that doesn't work, I'll try whiskey next time... I've tried tea and coffee, and chocolate and cake, but I can see now that it's drink it'll take.

Christmas Gifts

It's early, isn't it? but UNICEF have sent me their Christmas catalogue, so I've started thinking about it.

Christmas gifts - and birthday gifts - bother me. And cards, they bother me too. Because I love to receive them, at least, most of them - but greetings cards are usually a pointless, heavy-handedly humorous, eco-unfriendly way of syaing "I didn't forget! I care!" which, you know, ought to mean I use e-cards instead, but I loathe e-cards.

Gifts bother me because everyone I know already has enough stuff, and I have too much stuff, but we all want more stuff, and we don't need any of it. I don't actually know anyone on my must-give-gifts list who would be genuinely pleased to receive "10 geese for a farmer in Uganda" or whatever.

Thus the compromise: UNICEF. The cards aren't hideous and don't try to be amusing. The sources are moderate-to-good on the eco-meter. The cause is, without having done any research, fine. And the gifts... well, they're generic gifts. Candles and bags and stationery and toys and silk ties. Gifts for people who already have all the stuff they really want, because their income allows that, but still like more stuff as gifts, especially if it's nice stuff. And the UNICEF stuff is nice stuff.

The only time I tried to give a gift that wasn't clutter-junk, it wasn't used. Ho hum.

And so to bed

Rob came home and Linnea was calmer and happier than she has been all week - spending the day in front of the telly was a good idea, for her; I may be frazzled and wired and exhausted, but she's rested and revitalised and cheerful.

And she made Daddy take her for a walk - no, a carry - at 9:30 at night. Because, you know, it was important. We tried to fob her off and have her make do with the back garden, but no, she insisted on being taken down the street and around the block.

But then she came home, had a nice breastfeed, and went up on Rob's shoulder to bed just like she should.

So now we're going to watch some Yes, Prime Minister and I will, once again, get to shout repeatedly, "Omigod IloveBernard Omigod IwishIworkedwithim Omigod" and so on. The attention to detail is something I have often woshed for.

Only now, you know, I don't work. I sing the Roly Mo song almost obsessively, but I don't work. I can change a nappy while playing pat-a-cake, but I don't work. I'm so tired I had to ask Rob whether I had actually received a nasty letter from La Leche League demanding the return of a borrowed book, or only dreamt it (I'd dreamt it) and I have checked my online journal to see whether my exam under anaesthetic was already over or not (it was). I begin to wonder whether my employer would mind if I got signed off sick on exhaustion-induced stress leave. I think we would.

I really need to sort out some way of getting a graphic for the tshirt I want - you know, the one that goes -

If I was a

Stay-At-Home-Mom

you couldn't read this tshirt

Please tell me if that didn't work, because this whole font-tag thing is beyond me, I'm a stylesheet girl usually, only I'm, you know, TIRED.