Blargh

7pm, and I feel frazzled. Rubbed raw, shaky. I'm tired, I haven't been sleeping well, and my daughter has responded by wishing to be held and rocked pretty much all day. She is asleep by herself, still, for the first time all day. I myself feel like I could use a swift shot of whiskey.

And I really am not a hard liquor girl.

It's fine, of course, it is all fine. We are all well and hale and fine, and I am just chafing at small things, letting the little get under my skin in post-partum hormones and lack of sleep. I remember around this age the last time I called my husband once or twice and asked him to come home from work as I was feeling so bad; it's not that bad now.

This too will pass.

And tomorrow we're off to a yard sale. Why, you ask? Because our four year old indignantly told us his disappointment that he'd never been to a yard sale, so we have decided to indulge what is apparently a lifelong wish. To go to a yardsale. He is excited, and we are bemused. Long may his wishes be so easy to grant.