That was a troublesome night, last night: Molls was up, more or less, from about 2am. She woke up properly at 9am, and has been feeding on and off ever since. She doesn't nap much during the day. I managed to keep her mind off feeding for half an hour just now so that Herself could have a bath. Hmm.
But the thing is, if you make up your mind that there's nothing to be done about it, that you can't really go out for a newspaper, or get a bath, or have a meal when you want, that every minute is wrapped around this wee person's needs, then: it's cool. Everything swings around Molly, and if we get a few minutes at something else, well, that's a bonus.
It's more fun when the sun doesn't shine outside, being cabined-up like this. Cosy.
Mind you, there's still an external life. I'm going to have to join a local University library to do some studying, because our flat's too small for a baby AND an MA. Next week, that'll be. It'll feel like sheer luxury to do eight hours uninterrupted studying.
And I got a letter from work. There's a one day strike on Wednesday, and the letter took three pages to say, if you strike you don't get paid. Yeah, well, I could have guessed that. I don't even know what the strike's about - nobody from the Union has approached me to join, and I've been too busy to get around to it myself. But it's against my religion to cross a picket line, so I'll sort out the library malarkey that day.
I took this picture of Molly this afternoon. She's half Scottish. Mind you, she'll be in for a lifetime of heartbreak if she decides to follow their laughable football team. But she doesn't seem too enamoured of her English antecedents, does she?