There is a lovely moment, on a relaxed, quiet evening, where you look at your empty wineglass, think of the bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, wonder if you'll have another, and decide, d'you know what? You will.
Alas, this moment has been denied to me for 1 year, 3 months and 27 days. Ish. Not that I'm counting or anything.
This seems a very silly thing to complain about. I am a grown-up, responsible woman who has been lucky enough to have enjoyed a very good breastfeeding relationship. But it is somewhat getting in the way of another important relationship, that of mine with wine. I like wine. Wine is nice. I'm not really a one for getting drunk very often, as a bad head, raging thirst, unexplained bruises and vomit are even less appealing once there are small people in your life, but I do enjoy a glass of wine after a day of making silly faces at The Littl'un and telling The Toddler to put stuff down. And, thanks to The Littl'un and her hideously inconsistent feeding regime, a glass is all I can have. Sadface.
Yup, she still has not decided what times she would like to wake me up at. It might be 4am, or it might be half-past ten. And there is seemingly no rhyme or reason behind what time it will be, so I have no way of knowing whether that second glass of wine will be safely metabolised by the time Madam wants feeding, or whether it would result in me giving her the equivalent of a Pinot Grigo-shake (how rank would that be, by the way?). I am trying to phase out the night-feeds, but in my usual half-arsed, not-really-trying-all-that-hard kind of way. I was totally fed up and desperate to stop them, and had a pretty epic night where I tried not to do one, which ended up involving lots of rocking, some tears, an argument, a small cup of formula and me eventually just feeding her (I was going to share it with you on here, but there was no way I could have had a sense of humor about it), but I've calmed down about it now. I've been shortening the lengths of the feeds, and we're down to 5 minutes now, which is totally copeable-with, and I'm kind of vaguely hoping that eventually she'll realise that it's hardly waking up for. So yay, for being happy again. But boo for NO SECOND GLASS OF WINE.
This is so ridiculous. Really, I'm aware of that. It's even more ridiculous because, left to my own devices, I usually decide that I don't actually want a second glass of wine, and that a cup of tea (if Husband's making. His tea is awesome. Mine, not so much) is a much more sensible and appealing prospect. But now it is forbidden fermented fruit, it makes me sulky that I can't have it. I don't like being told what to do.
Bah. I'm going to go and sulk into my very small glass now. Cheers.