I am struggling to parent myself this week. B's away until Friday and I have been thrown on my own quite low mental resources a bit.
Yesterday though, I met up with four other chicken-keeping types (and pigs! and sheep! and ducks!) for our monthly-ish lunch-that-extends-in-to-the-afternoon. This time, the discussion ranged from how to get jam to set if you can't add Certo (Country Market Regs, apparently), via perineal massage (don't click if you are of a sensitive nature) to how long hens can retain active sperm inside themselves (about four weeks).
It was fun.
The Ladies Who Lunch have also worked out a chicken-and-cat sitting rota for me, which means that I can join B for the last week of June at the Cork Festival; so I have booked my flight with Ryan Air and just need to work out how many trees to plant to offset it.
Kate is coming for lunch today, so I need to get myself up and about before she arrives at 11.30-ish. And the man from the rescue centre is coming to collect the stray cat tomorrow afternoon, which will be good - she's not much bother, but cleaning her out twice a day and paying her the attention she needs is just another thing to do at the moment.
I am definitely going through another down patch - I don't want to be pregnant, I don't want to have the baby, I just want to curl up in a ball and cry and if I start I don't think I'll be able to stop; so I'm desperately trying to keep it together. The babe is lying horizontally across my belly at the moment and it's sore and uncomfortable and kicking me in tender places. I am fed up.
Self pity, so attractive. Sorry.
See me pull myself together and go and look for some clean socks! See! Here I go!
For today, that is all.