At your age.

I do apologise for the prolonged radio silence after my totally gratuitous use of a sympathetic audience to convict LS of being a hard-assed insurance judgment passer in his utterly unaware absence.

By the way, if you were wondering, I think I’ve hit upon the very best way to have an argument with your spouse with that last post. In blissful absentia is the way to go. Not only do I get the smug satisfaction of being right, right, RIGHT (Ha!), but there was much less shouting and no tiresome interjections when WE all wanted to speak.

I should do it more often.

Anyway, I do apologise for the lapse in communications but it turns out that, unlike having newborn preemie twins who were bottle-fed and slept like tops in between on accounts of small and prem-ness, having boisterous three year old twins belting around the house singing the poo-bum song combined with a rather less inclined to nap full-term singleton with a vaguely indecent relationship with my breasts at all times means that I have very little time to blog.

Who knew?

Also, I broke the ice and nursed in public in a cafe yesterday because there was no bloody way I was going to be able to drag Saag and Naan away from toast and babychinos without bloodshed and I was amazed to discover that the earth did not cave in, after all. Yes, I think about five dozen men carefully looked at my breasts and then just as hurriedly didn’t look at my breasts and generally spent quite a lot of time NOT looking at my breasts while sipping lattes a bit faster than planned but that’s okay because I think we all plan to pretend it never happened. Particularly the men sitting with, say, their wives.  

I think looking at female tits is just hard wired and it’s like trying to ask people not to slow down and stare at a car accident on the other side of the freeway, they can’t help it and you’re late even though there is technically nothing wrong with the bit of road you’re driving on at all.

Pet peeve that.

Regardless, on top of the three children and public boob shenanigans, my other mother in law (the nice one who I adore because she always brings FOOD when she visits and that is my kind of houseguest made in greedy heaven right there and yes I really do have two mothers in law thanks to the wonders of remarriage. Lucky me) was visiting recently and thus it’s been even harder than usual to blog.

I truly do utterly adore her and she’s great to talk to but I note that (ignoring the less fun aspects like baby sh!t and sleepless nights and crying and stuff) when I voiced a bit of sadness that I would never have a squidgy newborn to snuggle with again on accounts of career et cetera, the response was a surprised sounding ‘Well of course not, there’s your age, anyway.’

I thought I was having a good wrinkle day but apparently I have now entered the phase of life better known as ‘dried up ovaries’ even to people I see twice a year.

If I wasn’t being vaguely silly about the whole episode I could observe that I kind of want to cry when I think about that statement. At my age. Am I that old already?

G

Maybe next time I’ll tell you about my adventures in the land of cup-of-tea-making electric pump because I finally caved and got a real big girl pump having finally given myself w@nkers wrist with my trusty arthritic wheezy old hand pump. Have exchanged bed-spring sounding creaking for chu-chug, chu-chug.