I got four and a half hours sleep last night, thanks to my overdeveloped procrastination muscle - I'm very grateful to my cake patron for insisting on paying me more than I asked her to, because, yeah, making fondant Angry Birds seems to take five hours. Ahem three in the morning bedtime ahem.
And yet, I got up at 7.30 far less painfully than I expected to, and got through the morning of work without any trauma. Now it's seven o clock, and rather than the dull, fuzzy, spaced out weirdness of my usual baby or correcting related sleep deprivation feeling, I just feel... I don't know.
Strange. Motivated to gently fall asleep. Sitting on Bodhi's bed, I could feel some unconscious part of me already lying down and succumbing to the pillow. A powerful and deeply satisfying suggestion. I'm fantasizing about bedtime now, I think I'l be ready to go about two hours before Olivia would really want to.
Oh! Someone I know had a baby and called her Olivia, how cool is that?
In other news, my brother and sister in law had a baby boy last Monday (not this Monday) and he's staying in intensive care to be monitored and his mum has had to go home and leave him there, and come back to feed him every four hours.
It's making me so sad for them. I wish our hospitals could make provision for parents to stay with their newborns. I wish they'd let them take him home and bring him back for checks - they can't actually find anything specifically wrong with him, they're just taking precautions. Also, his dad took three weeks off to be at home with him, and two of those are gone already. Homeward bound thoughts for them, please.