I've done a lot of things which at the time made me feel very happy. I've walked on islands made of straw in Peru, drunk green tea from the most ornate teapots I've ever seen in Japan, gotten lost in the raw noise and chaos of New York and Marrakech, spent hours browsing through incredible bookshops in Australia. I've danced (badly) in cities all over the world. But, honestly, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen is my baby's face. I wish I could send a message back to the scared, heavily pregnant me of three months ago. I wish I could tell her that everything will be alright because the most perfect little boy I've ever seen has given me some semblance of peace.
|I wasn't joking. These islands are made of FREAKING STRAW.|
That last paragraph is probably (no, in fact, DEFINITELY) needlessly sentimental so I'm going to interrupt the saccharine sweetness by exposing yet more of my terrible personality. As I mentioned in my last blog post (which just happened to be earlier today - what an eager beaver) my friend has also recently had a baby. I really like my friend and her baby is beautiful but, and this is a big but (haha! big butt), she appears to have given birth to her personality as well as her son.
It has LITERALLY disappeared. My attempts at making conversation crumbled into awkward silences wherein she would just stare at her baby in mute concentration. Please don't misunderstand me - I could (and regularly do) spend all day gazing into the face of my son. However, when I go and have coffee with a friend, I kind of expect both parties to talk and ask questions and at least feign interest. The only point at which she showed any animation was at this point:
Me: "We managed to get to the cinema for the first time yesterday. Mum looked after the baby for a couple of hours for us. It was lovel..."
Her: "I have NEVER left my baby. I just don't feel the need to, I enjoy spending time with him."
Firstly, that to me sounds unhealthy - her baby is nearly six months old. For Christ's sake give the poor child a bit of breathing space. Secondly, the silent implication that I don't enjoy spending time with my baby makes me a tad cross. The fact that I've written this all down makes me a bitch right? Oh goodness. Yep I'm a bitch.
Now that I've achieved my aim of making everyone hate me by the end of every blog post I guess I should really get on and do the washing up. Sigh. Over and out.
Listening to: The Struggle by Scroobius Pip
Reading: Our Tragic Universe by Scarlett Thomas