The day so far

Linnea has refused to eat anything, and is gradually deflating like a tired birthday balloon, only noisier. I assume she will eventually have space for porridge. I, on the other hand, have eaten breakfast and tidied up a good deal, including some toy-sorting. We have a bookcase that is surplus to requirements and I've been sorting the toys off it into boxes to go under the windowseat.

She has way too many toys. Even though they were all on lovely shelves laid out for her, she hadn't played with half of them for months. I will weed again soon. And I foresee a Great Charity Giveaway, too.

Rob is going to print my letters in the office today, as we really can't make the printer work. This could be a problem if he reaches a stage where he has to print CVs. Perhaps we should make judicious use of his parents' printer at the weekend.

On the one hand, I want to go out and buy painting gear today. And on the other, I'm tired and in moderate pain. I think I might possibly have a yeast infection in my milk ducts somewhere, but there's no surface evidence. I'm going to try cutting out sugar, as yesterday's huge sugar intake definitely made the bedtime feed significantly more painful than it needed to be (at least, it must have been sugar, what else could it have been?) and I am anxious to reclaim my position as Woman For Whom Breastfeeding Was The Only Easy Bit Dammit.

Or, you know, Girl, because this is England and we're all girls here.

I think I might just do my painting on big bits of spare cardboard. Much easier than buying materials.

The red paint stains the worst

Linnea and I did some painting today. It was fun and splodgy. The red paint seems to stain everything it touches but has so far washed out of all clothes in a 40C cycle.

I caved in and had sugar. Now I hurt. See? I have printed out some information on thrush to take to the doctor, so that I have support for the "yes it's possible without external symptoms" argument, and I'm hoping to get a decent response. That is, either reasoned argument for why it's not thrush and what it is instead, or a proper prescription for myself and Linnea to nuke it. I have never been close to quitting breastfeeding before, and this past week, it has honestly occurred to me a few times.

Somewhere I have a post about the systematic devaluing of "women's work" such that men and women both think it's of less value than "men's work" - making clothes and food were prestigious when men did them, trivial when women do, etc, and so on up to housework and childcare.

Then there's one about how working women stay home when their babies are ill or when the usual childcare arrangement falls through, and how that affects Rob - I am his usual childcare arrangement, so when I fall through, there's only him left. And I have something to say about the fact that viagra is available on NHS prescription but my vaginal dilators aren't but it's incoherent and enraged so there you go.

Rob printed off two letters and the thrush info. I will hand-deliver the letters as soon as the black dog gets off my shoulder and lets me out of the house. I tried to call the health visitors today (wasn't I brave?) and got no answer. I need to make an appointment to see someone about this depression. It's not severe, but it's lurking ominously, and I'm not happy about it. I want to discuss treatment, counselling, something. A whole new head is an option, of course.

And then I want to write a post about invisible disabilities and how I know zillions of women who have them and almost no men. Do men not admit it? Or are they less prone to them? What's up with that?

Meanwhile, I have a brand new copy of Cynthia Heimel's Advanced Sex Tips For Girls and one of the Baby Blues treasuries (Driving under the influence of children, in case you're interested).