Dyson Girl

It seems my daughter much prefers to hoover up any manky old detritus left lying about on the floor than partake of my painstakingly created culinary masterpieces. She frequently turns her nose up at all manner of delightful dishes but will happily cruise around the carpet searching for the minutest piece of dirt to dine on.
Her favourite recent light bites being pine needles, carpet fluff, cat hair and a lump of coal.
I have seriously been tempted to spread her dinner underneath her high chair, or better still in the cat dish.

Moan

It's sucks more than I care to mention how tricky life is when Mr.A is away with work. Most nights I collapse into bed as early as humanly possible, counting all of my blessings that I am not a single parent (well, not so far) because frankly, I have no idea how they cope.
I admire, venerate and marvel at all lone parents out there for they deserve to be canonized.
Lily misses Daddy. Mummy misses Daddy. Lily misses the Mummy who is present when Daddy is home and doesn't much care for the replacement stressed and anxious Mummy.
It's wretched and I function extremely badly without enormous amounts of sleep.

This week I would mostly like to be left alone in a darkened room with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and 20 Lambert and Butler.

Hirsute

Lily's obsession with fur is, I think, slowly diminishing. For some weeks now my strange hairy girl has been chewing, licking and rubbing her face in as much fur as she can get her paws on. Mostly she loves to lick the pages of the baby textile book that has a picture of a cat with a round furry tummy or the inside of her lambs wool cosy toes which now looks decidedly bald in places. She takes much delight in grooming Tinker too, a highly unsavoury pass-time as his personal hygiene is not up to scratch these days and the preening is very one sided; all Lily gets for her care and attention is a sharp left hook, so far thankfully without claws.