We’ve hit the middle of another week here, and I’m spending this particular morning cleaning up and watching my sweet boy swing himself into a nap.
Between 7am and 10am, Theo has something like a witching hour. He can’t decide what he’d like to be doing, which generally leads to some kind of a five-week-old meltdown.
It’s not a pretty sight.
Fortunately, I have discovered that a ride in the swing facing a well-lit window seems to the activity T was missing out on, and we’re both having a calmer morning for it.
Among other things I’ve been up to this week (visiting with my family, washing eight million tiny outfits, taking showers while a newborn screams), I’ve stumbled back upon the Walking Dead series, which actually had its season finale last week (which, by the way, was awesome)
It’s no secret that I have, in my overly tired state, been making some poor choices about my television watching. I won’t even share with you the reality shows that seem appealing after a night full of pieced together, interrupted sleep.
I recalled though, after the crazy cliffhanger episode, that I’ve never actually seen the first season, because I jumped onto the bandwagon after everyone else.
Which means six amazing episodes of Rick and his crew when the zombies first showed up, and several days without me watching super rich middle-aged women get dramatic over dinner parties.
It’s the small wins, chickadees. Enjoy the sunshine if you’ve got it.