I’m falling behind on my posting as behind the scenes I’m still writing about our trip away *sob*. You know. The one that feels like some faraway dream. Today washed all semblance of holiday sangfroid out of me.
‘Sangfroid’. How I have often read it, but never used it in a sentence myself. There you go.
sangfroid |sɒ˜ˈfrwɑː| (also sang-froid)
composure or coolness, sometimes excessive, as shown in danger or under trying circumstances.
ORIGIN mid 18th cent.: from French sang-froid, literally ‘cold blood.’
As I was saying. Last night, in amongst the probably four or five feeds for Small DB (it’s not so bad – I roll over, she feeds, we both go back to sleep) I had to change her nappy at 1am. At 2am M staggered in, wildeyed, and said he couldn’t take sleeping with Small Z anymore. He flounced off to the caravan.
I went in to Small Z, who drank a bucketload of water and went back to sleep. I lay there for 45 minutes. Small DB woke. I went and got her and brought her in with Small Z and I. Gack. Small DB awoke for the day at 5.30am and I had to whisk her into the loungeroom (instead of lying there playing dead for half an hour) so she didn’t wake the Other One. Yes. I have two children. Why, I am not sure….
Small Z was up by 6.45am and by 7.15am she had breakfasted and coerced me into making a cubby with her in the front yard out of a sheet, a curtain, a rake, a pram and a tree. The rest of the day was spent with me trying to function and remain both vertical and pleasant. We visited the park and cafe in Balnarring, came home and made some stupendously healthy (and quite tasty) muffins*, survived two huge face-offs with Small Z, ate too many of the aforementioned muffins and…
…just before I imploded I remembered the key to fatigue-ridden sanity. Change your environment. So we went outside. Small DB had a swing and picked clover, Small Z played in the treehouse and I savaged some dead tomato plants. Due to teething and her age and the aspect of the sun and the angle of the moon, Small DB was hard to get down tonight – and the laksa (the recipe is crap) for which I had held such hope, slowly became mutinous glutinous soup. And that’s the charitable description.
M just walked through the door, nude – as he does when he strips off his fibreglass ridden clothes at the front door (no neighbours have said anything yet, but I am patient) and said, “It was a bit lonely at the boat today.” I fixed him with a look that spanned millennia and told him not to complain about the thing I crave. A little bit of loneliness would have gone a long way today… until I fell asleep and forgot to relish it.
*Added 1/4 cup olive oil and 1 cup applesauce instead of vegetable oil. Plus handful of raspberries. Only 1/2 cup sugar.