Okay, thanks. Now I can write something.
This blog is over three years old now (like F), and it's slowed down quite a lot lately. Not that I feel an obligation to write x many posts a month or anything, actually I only write if I feel I've got something interesting or funny to write about. Wafting about soppy scenes from my children's lives is mostly of interest to me and my immediately family, after all. If I find the cutesy poos my kids do delightful even when dripping brownly off my chin, there's only a limited chance the rest of the world will find it so.
If I'm keen to avoid this merely being a 'kids do the damnest things!' type blog, nor do I want it to be the opposite, the 'actually parenting is really tough and bleak' sort of thing. It is, but it isn't - yes it's tough, obviously, but I wouldn't enjoy whining about it in a blog. Moaning solves nothing, as a rule, unless it's the kind of moaning which entertains an audience in some way.
So I've not really had much to write about for a while. We've all been either sick with flu, or exhausted with sleepless nights, or the absence of either of those states, too asleep to do anything that inspired me for some time. It's funny in a kind of 'ha ha, look at the enfeebled man failing to cope' sort of a way, but I reckon I've coped well enough that it's not really entertaining enough to share. Like slapstick, but with the custard pies replaced with something sensible and boring. Crispbread, maybe.
C has teeth now, her latest excuse for not sleeping past 0300. She won't go to sleep unless cradled in someone's arms, and unless she can also jam her fingers into the eye sockets of that same person. Videogame violence pervades our world these days. Although she has never seen or played it, I would swear C is trying to enact some kind of Mortal Kombat finishing move on me most nights.
Elsewhere F has heard the Twits for the first time. Boy, that Roald Dahl hated beards and beard-wearers! After chapter one, all about how repugnant we are, F gave me a very hard look. "It's okay, I wash mine all the time," I told her. This is a lie. I don't have generally find time to wash it, or myself, more than about once a week at present. Nor have I had a haircut in six months. I'm a case study in why Hipsters groom so assiduously, I look like two hedges colliding inside an oil tanker. F was relieved (disappointed?) that there weren't sardine tails rounds the edges of my nostrils, at least.
And F and C together, well, they're both learning about jealousy. If one sits on my knee, both must. If C has a new toy, F must bore of it before she may play with it. If F doesn't eat her food quickly, C will attempt to annex it. I, too, am learning of jealousy in this last context, leftover disposal is my chief family role. There's no room for extra labradors in this house.
So business as usual, really, even if I haven't spoken much of it lately. We're all well and thriving. Spring is finally back in Sweden, and lying exhausted in the sand of the local playparks seems like a good place to have washed up after the stormy winter. Roll on April, fools.
