Bad Days

Last year, a bad day mainly revolved around not hitting a million unique users on the Sky Showbiz website, or not having enough news content (how rude of Britney to not have another meltdown! How boring of Posh to stay with her husband! How outrageous of Paris to not get off her face and puke in a gutter!).

A bad day these days begins with a 5.30am wake up call – a wail, not a chirrup – and entering Il Babbino’s room to find it reeking like an open sewer.

It is tripping over The Kiwi’s bike in pursuit of a fresh nappy, getting KR’s babushka door stop covered in bike grease and smashing a new picture frame in the fall.

It is giving KR porridge that ends up in her hair, up her nose and on the walls.

On a bad day, I give her some bum-airing time, where she wafts around sans nappy, immediately poos on the floor, tries to put her hands in it, and then busts out of her Bumbo when I’m trying to damage control the scene.

Or having 99% success in face-catching a standy-uppy, but failing in the 1% when she headbuts the floor.

And yet for all the hard stuff there is SO MUCH good. Stuff that is hard to write about without sounding like a smug w@nker – stuff that would give The Kiwi more ammo when he says maternity leave is like a year-long holiday.

My bad days these days seem better than my good days in the olden days.