I am tired. I am desperately tired.
I am tired as only a newish parent can be; tired as a man whose nights have been interrupted and interrupted again for six months or more; tired as a lengthy comedy routine on BBC Radio poking fun at the fact that John Prescott might be overweight because he eats too much.
I stagger round the kitchen in my tiredness. The Baby has been awake even more over the past few days; he is up several times a night, boasts rosy cheeks and dribbles a lot. He smiles at me, just to be unkind.
Longing for a simple solution, I poke my finger in his mouth and scrabble around, desperately searching for teeth. But he is still as toothless as an elderly hen sitting on the Press Complaints Commission.
I am sure that he is doing it on purpose.
“I’ll see you later then,” says the LTLP. The door slams behind her, its echo causing a layer of doom to drift gently down into the kitchen.
I look at the Baby. The Baby looks at me.
As I gaze at him, I am once more overwhelmed with the situation. The LTLP has gone back to work, leaving me in sole charge. Not just of a house and of Child #1. Of a Baby. It is the most important role and responsibility that I have ever had in my life, ever ever.
The Baby inclines his head slightly at me. He has already contacted BT to place Social Services on our ‘Friends and Family’ and is no doubt now weighing up the most humorous time that he could do a poo. I sit down on the bottom step of the staircase and start biting my nails.
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