There just isn’t time

Bernard is at a new childminder, entailing a ten minute bike ride twice a day, and changed work hours, so that there simply isn’t time left in the day. When I get back with him in the afternoon, it’s nearly tea-time. I am worried about when I will get the shopping done. We have no bread left. I suppose I could make some.

Meanwhile work is mad, because no-one covered my job while I was away last week, which has left a gaping hole in the planning calendar. People might be exploited, while nothing is done! It’s a true emergency.

And I’m still suffering from volunteeritis; I’m now a qualified NCT Bra Fitter. You want your nursing bras? I’m yer man. Sort of. Perhaps woman would be a more appropriate term in this instance. I’m also the back-up breastpump agent, and my breastfeeding counselling course is coming along nicely, thank you. I’m like the local Boob Lady.

Bernard is growing and moving a lot, and I don’t mean like when he was a bump. We have never invested in a baby walker for him, so he has invented his own: he turns over the smallest nesting table, and pushes that around the carpet. He says many, many words; unfortunately I don’t recognise the majority of them. He definitely says “bawwwww” which means “ball,” and he’s working on cat, guitar, hello, and daddy. What a useful selection. He quite clearly understands lots and lots of what we say to him, which is both good and bad.

We just had an awesome holiday in Cornwall, including a number of visits to the beach, the Eden Project (which I must write about sometime), Plymouth Aquarium, and some other stuff that I’ve mainly forgotten already because I’m so busy.

There just isn’t time to think.