Da Mama

So, dear reader, what with all of my kvetching about Peter's poor (um, non-existent) sleep habits, you may be wondering how I've been getting on. Perhaps, dear reader, you are marvelling at my super-human ability to go nearly six weeks sans sleep, and thinking that I would make an excellent double-agent or other person likely to be tortured into giving up information. Well, dear reader, wonder and marvel no more. The secret is simple and time-proven: da mama. My mama, that is, or, in other words, Peter's Gram.

This is how it has gone: dear husband returns from work in the evening, and between the two of us we continue with the holding-Peter routine whilst preparing and eating our own dinner. Then I feed the dear lad (Peter, that is), and Mark takes over for a few hours while I take a nap. If it's a weekend, we rinse and repeat, but if not, I am on human-bassinet duty from about midnight until early morning. That's when da mama comes in.

I mean that literally: for two and a half weeks, my mother came over every single solitary morning around 6:30 to take over holding Peter for a few hours while I got some more shut-eye. Then she stayed with me for the entire day so that I could attend to such negligible personal care items as eating, showering and peeing, while also providing moral support and adult conversation (which I, being something of a delicate flower, am hopeless without). Da mama has since returned to the Monday-Friday work scene, but has continued her early-morning appearances on the weekends. And sometimes during the week.

So there you have it, dear reader, my dirty little secret: At the wise old age of thirty-one, I remain a mama's girl.

Peter and his Gram.

And, unrelatedly, a couple of pics of Peter with his Gramps. Dad had a very fussy Peter in his arms for all of three seconds before pronouncing that his troubles were all digestive. He's probably right, but the image of my dad as some kind of baby whisperer makes me giggle.