For a long time while the Monkey was sorting out her sleep issues, she owuld have that period during the day that I believe others have called the "witching hour" or "arsenic hour" or similar. Basically a period of protracted whinging and whining, where nothing consoles them and everyone's teeth grind together as they look for the magic time when you can bundle them off to bed for 12 hours. During this time I used to refer to the Monkey as Señorita Grumpypants. She was actually quite funny to watch as she would go from giggling and blowing raspberries to what looked like complete indignant anger in mere seconds. One second giggling about playing tickle games, the next screaming with the most p*ssed off looking face an angelic baby can manage. (Side note, red hair is associated with bad tempers and I fear that between the strawberry blonde one and now the auburn one we are in for some FUN times)
But after a while, the whinging, and the yelling, and the profanity became a bit tiresome, and about the only thing that made me smile about Señorita Grumpypants was calling her Señorita Grumpypants. Grumpypants was also a particularly fitting name as nothing made her happier than removign her pants. It appears that I give birth to nudists. If only we didn't have carpet I'd let her roam free and let that teensy smackable white bum have full rein over the loungeroom, but we've trialled that, and yes, bad idea all round.
Anyhow, the point of that long and somewhat meandering tale, was that I was reading back over my last few diary entries and I realised something. If the Monkey was Señorita Grumpypants then I, I was Señora Grumpypants. Whingy, whiny, tiresome, gritty teeth inducing, grumpypants wearing. That was ME! Except I don't have the angelic looks of an 8 month old to pull it off.
What's the go Elemental-san? You sound worse than those 14 year olds who write into terrible magazines like Cosmo (which, I still enjoy in a lovely vacuous way - maybe I am actually a 14 year old girl).
In any case, I was getting so comfortable in my Grumpypants that even my lovely husband (LH for short - woohoo I don't have to use that terrible DH acronym any more!!) noticed, and not only did he notice but he decided to do something about it. Deciding that it was in fact the pants that were the trouble and not his lovely wife (ie me) he went in search of some feeding bras that did not look like they once belonged to Queen Victoria's prudish maiden Aunt.
You will recall that I have whinged long and loud about maternity undergarments before, bemoaning the abundance of beige and granny lace once you get above a C (for copious) cup. In any case, the clever man actually found some. They are gorgeous. They have real lace. They look like something I would wear!! So delighted LH bought me a set (he even knows my size - complete winner of a husband, shall definitely keep him) AND he arranged to have them gift wrapped and sent to me. Via real mail! So I got to open a present!!!
So now I have gorgeous pants again and my grumpypants are on vacation in the back of my wardrobe. And ridiculously enough I do feel better. I am happier, I am enjoying myself and I am back to my regular life loving non whining self. And the only grumpypants in this house belong to the Monkey who is currently very cranky that she can't walk. But she's trying!