My gourmand baby blew a raspberry at my homemade oat biscuits and swiped them onto the floor with a derisive laugh. She had a point, really. They weren't biscuits so much as oat flakes squidged hopefully into mashed banana.
It summed up the day, really. One of those long drawn out ones, where you catch yourself staring into space and then saying, "right!" a lot, as if the word might rev up your inner motor if you said it enough times.
Right, baby. Right, baby. I love you, baby. Even if you laugh at my culinary efforts, I love you. At least you are partial to my homemade milk. Now, good night baby.
It seemed as if the challenging day was to end wrist-deep in pee, with the ritualistic rinsing nappies in baby's bathwater. But then, there was a knock on the door.
There stood my neighbour, with a plate of food in her hands, a halo glowing around her head. "Room service?" she said, grinning. And just like that, the day didn't seem so bad, after all.