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But if Terry Wogan can die that means any of us can die. It means that one day I might die.
Hopefully, in February some arseholes will die (a couple did slip through in January). The impact of losing icons without warning has been quite hard to take. But not as hard to take as my own death would be. And I am starting to lose faith in the fact that I am immortal.
One of the joys of being a parent is how much you can get done at a time of day when in the olden days you would still have been fast asleep. Plus, because you’re tired, the things you achieve in those early hours are often disastrous. Phoebe was up just after five today and didn’t want to go back to sleep so I got up with her and started the day. And before six o clock there had been a string of mishaps. Phoebe was sick all down herself and over me as soon as I’d given her her morning milk, so I had to go and change her clothes, then I emptied the dishwasher after putting her in “the hole” (which is what I call her playpen which is set up in the kitchen). When putting the bowls away I somehow managed to smash one of the kitchen counter, sending shards of pottery all over the floor and dangerously close to my playing imprisoned daughter. So then I had to carefully tidy all that away, ensuring there was not tiny fragment near her that might go into her mouth or soft skin. I put Phoebe in her high chair to keep her out of harm’s way and gave her her bottle of water to give her something to occupy herself. When I looked up from my broken bowl tidying I saw that she had tipped pretty much the entire thing down the baby costume (as I call all her clothes) that she had just had put on. So I went upstairs to change her again, putting her on the potty (as I had done on two occasions already) to no avail. I came back downstairs and put her back in the high chair and got on with tidying up. I tried to empty the water out of a casserole dish which was soaking by the sink, but managed to pour it all over the work top, floor and my own underpants (I was just in a T-shirt and underwear at this point). So I had to take off my pants for comfort and then used them to mop up the rest of the spill (not the first time I have used my pants to cover up the shame of spilled liquids) and I couldn’t leave my baby alone, so for the next hour or so I was walking round the house like some kind of man-child or Winnie the Pooh in a shirt and no underwear. And then Phoebe pooed herself, even though she had just been on the potty ten minutes before.
What a cavalcade of disaster and humiliation, without even the excuse of having been up all night drinking. My daughter came through it all unscathed and happy and in spite of all this I do really enjoy my morning times with her. Though she was really tired this morning - well duh Phoebe, that’s what happens when you get up at five. I was really tired too, but I couldn’t then have a 90 minute nap to catch up like my stupid baby as I had too much stuff to do. I shouldn’t even have been awake yet. What have I done to myself?
I put some new pants on eventually.
