LK either had gastroenteritis, or spectacular teething poos, or both: the seventh tooth is now safely through, and the eighth is hot on its heels.
The washing machine broke down. The repairman has been out twice already, hoping not to have to fit a new pump. A new pump is now sitting by the washing machine, ready to be fitted today. Hopefully all will now work, and N will stop leaving coins in his trousers. Damn expensive, those 5 pence pieces. Damn expensive. Of course, a baby with an explosive bottom (twice in the bath! TWICE!) and a non-functional washing machine is such a delightful combination. The washing machine man is due again today. Time unspecified. This has interrupted running and general lifemin no end (I want to go out at lunchtime and take my laptop to see if a spot more memory can be fitted, as it’s just so slow, and maxing out its memory. It’s 9 years old, so it’s had a good innings – but I think it’s got a bit more life left in it yet). Utterly frustrating. I have little enough time as it is, without losing it to other people’s washing machines. The washing machine is currently running on a wing, a prayer, and a sealant-stuck filter. It may or may not hold out until the repairman arrives. I can’t do any laundry until he’s been and gone today – because he doesn’t need to be hanging about waiting for laundry to finish. Nor does he need to be hanging about draining half-done laundry. At least the nappy wash made it through before the thing went hatstand.
We had to drive down to Dorset for a funeral in the middle of the week. LK fell asleep about fifteen minutes before we arrived, then woke up five minutes after it started. Fortunately, there was a loo and a vestibule at the lovely natural burial site, so I could deal with the explosive poo, and then have a quiet space to play with her while the service went on. Hampshire (we’re practically in Surrey) to Dorset and back in a day is utterly exhausting, even with a well-behaved (albeit pooey) baby. She charmed the socks off everyone. It chucked it down with rain (it chucked it down with rain at the last funeral I went to. Two funerals in the space of two weeks is two too many, frankly).
I have had nipple thrush almost constantly for the past fortnight. I though it had gone. It has not. Grrr. I am fed to the back teeth of dosing myself and LK with various anti-fungals. She seems to be symptom free. But I think she gave it back to me last week. Yes. Still breastfeeding. Wondering why, because of the aforementioned thrush. Never wanting an antibiotic again (although, oddly, my digestion is vastly improved since the antibiotics – I used to lie in bed at night and swear I could feel food moving through, and pockets of gas popping about. These symptoms have gone with the antibiotics. Makes sense. That all started after LK had a horrible vomiting bug in October last year, which she gave to me, and after which my digestion did not feel right. Nick had the same thing, but didn’t seem to have the longer term effects).
I did not manage to go for a run on Thursday (too knackered). So I did intervals on Saturday morning. Not the best preparation for a 12 mile run on Sunday. That was an epic plod after a brief lie-in (it is impossible to have a proper lie in when LK wakes and wants feeding twice in the first hour of the day. It gets a bit interrupted. I got lucky on Sunday, and N took her downstairs to play for half an hour between feeds while I languished in bed). Still. I am hoping that I am going to smash Farnham Pilgrim Half in a couple of weeks (by smash, I mean be slower than I was while I was training for Berlin Marathon, but faster than I was the last time I ran it. I’m hoping for 2:15 on an undulating course).
I’ve been feeling anxious and depressed: but using my CBT techniques so mostly holding it together. It is helpful to be so knackered that it’s impossible to manage the mindfulness techniques. Failing that, there’s always detective novels to read at 4am.
And I fell out with one of my friends on Friday night. I have apologised, but I have a supsicion that my text-message based overreaction (a combination of many things on Friday night, none of which I need to go into, all of which I feel somewhat ashamed about, some related to the aforementioned anxiety) means she’ll never speak to me again. Which is a huge shame, but probably calmer for both of us in the longer term.
This week will be better. For a start, we don’t have to go to a funeral.