In December 2013 I had a miscarriage. It wasn’t my only miscarriage, but it’s the one that really screwed me up. I was six weeks pregnant and I had her whole life planned out.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet, I still don’t feel entitled to grieve for my child properly because it ended so early. It had been ingrained in me that because it was so early on it should be treated as ‘just one of those things’. It’s because of this mind-set that I tried to bounce back to normality and get on with things. That plan didn’t work out so well and I ended up taking a nosedive into depression.
I know I’m not alone in this.
Women are meant to be stoic and get on with their lives and pretend that it’s silly to grieve for something that was barely there. There’s a time limit that you can be upset for (usually until you stop bleeding) and then anything more than that you’re just being dramatic.
Don’t get me wrong, my family never made me feel like that – I did. I pushed myself to forget that it even happened and concentrate on my son that was here, or even just try again. Simple, right?
The problem was I had already fallen in love with my baby that was the size of an orange, decided her name and was already mentally redecorating the nursery for her. I couldn’t just switch it off and I resented the fact that I ‘had’ to.
It didn’t go away when I fell pregnant with Oscar and it hasn’t gone away nearly five years later.
I’m still angry.
I’m angry that I have nothing to remember this little life by. I don’t have a grave to visit, a scan photo to look at or even the positive pregnancy test as proof she existed, even for those six short weeks.
All I have is the dull ache in my heart that comes back when I remember sitting in the A&E department, bleeding, waiting to see a doctor.
If I don’t think about her, then it really would be like she never existed and I refuse to do that. It’s bad enough that I felt ashamed to grieve for something that was never meant to be, I won’t let the memory of those few weeks be forgotten.
I don’t want to be embarrassed about still thinking about her, I want to acknowledge that this shitty, shitty thing happened and remember that for those six weeks she existed. I won’t let myself forget the little life I had forged for her and I’ll listen to P!nk! ‘Beam me up’ and remember that grief is brutal but there’s no time limit or right way to do it.
I wish there had been words of comfort from a doctor, when it happened, or any type of counselling that could have helped me feel justified in my upset, but there was neither. I guess the point of this post is: miscarriage is horrible at any stage; if you’ve gone through it I’m sorry for your loss. You are not alone and it’s ok to remember your baby. Even if you’re lucky enough to go on and have a healthy pregnancy and give birth, it still doesn’t make your loss disappear or any less relevant. It happened, feel it.
Her name was Lily, she was my daughter and she always will be.
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The Joys of Potty Training
This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:
“Oscar threw a poo at me.”
And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.
It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.
Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.
I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.
He didn’t care.
I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.
He didn’t care.
I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.
He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.
The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.
Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.
Back to this evening…
I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.
‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.
He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.
This child will be the death of me.
I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.
If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.
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How to Survive PMS: A Guide for Men
Scrolling through the tinternet, yesterday, I came across a discussion about period cramps and how the pain associated with them has been compared to that of a heart attack – no shit, Sherlock.
When I finished reading I realised that because I am truly outnumbered by males in this house – and the fact that two of those are children and one is a dog, who therefore couldn’t care less that I feel like I’m dying a slow and excruciating death – I decided it was about time that I put together a handy guide for those of you who are living with women and need help during this precarious time.
Why, yes! I am referring to my husband in this bracket, because apparently being together for 12 years isn’t long enough for him to pick up on my subtle clues that during this ‘special’ time I morph into an unpredictable bitch and he should probably back off for a few hours, or I may stab him repeatedly with a very blunt butter knife.
I make no apology for this completely natural event or what my overdramatic uterus may ‘make’ me do, I just want to be able to hand him this post when he seriously thinks it’s ‘hilarious’ to make jokes about anything PMS related.
How to calm down a completely fictitious woman who in no way resembles me during her period:
Step 1: Always have a hot water bottle to hand; you know like the one she asked for YESTERDAY and you didn’t bring when she was doubled over in heart-attack-level pain? Just a thought, this isn’t a direct example of what happened in my house yesterday. This is all based on a fictitious woman – let’s call her: Splizabeth.
Step 2: It may be safer for you to wear a few extra layers over the next couple of days in case she accidentally throws objects – like a child or a laptop – in frustration in your general direction at the lack of hot water bottle.
Step 3: Make sure there’s chocolate to hand. Unless your wife has recently gone vegan and the only alternative is (frankly disgusting) dark chocolate. By all means hand her the dark chocolate if you want, but be prepared for her rant back at you about how it tastes like the devil’s ass and how you’re a disgusting human being for even thinking she’d want to eat it.
Step 4: Leave the chocolate, I – sorry, I mean Splizabeth– will eventually eat it in desperation.
Step 5: Try not to breathe in her general direction because even knowing you’re alive and not in pain is a bit of an annoyance.
Step 6: Don’t let her watch horror movies, it genuinely may give her ideas. It might be safer just to take the remote off her when she starts sentences like: ‘Now, if I were to murder you I wouldn’t do it like that. Firstly I would…’
Step 7: Just take the kids and the dog and leave her alone for a few hours / days and let her get on with things. Be warned: at any given moment her unpredictable mood may mean she wants to be around her family because she loves you all. Don’t worry, it won’t last long. Probably only until someone breathes on her, so don’t fall for it. Just send a picture and look miserable. That will keep Splizabeth happy.
Now, you’re all set for next month and the month after that and so on because unfortunately my her uterus plans on being dramatic for a few more years before she meets the whole new hormonal shit-storm that is menopause.
Good luck!
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My Christmas Shopping Hell
I hate shopping. It irritates me no end, mostly because I have zero patience. Shopping for Christmas presents is basically my worst nightmare. Every year I swear I’ll be more organised and yet every year it’s the same last minute panic buys, as I try not to strangle any of my fellow shoppers with tinsel.
In that spirit, please enjoy my take on the hell that is Christmas shopping.
O Holy Shite (sung to the tune of ‘O Holy Night’)
P.S: don’t worry those of you who think I’m going to hell for this, I’ve already pre-booked my ticket
Verse 1:
O Holy shite, it’s Christmas time already
It is the time when your cash goes to hell.
Long is the queue, for this year’s ‘must-have’ teddy
I need a gin in my tea can you tell?
Bridge & Chorus:
A thrill of hope, a second till has opened
For lucky folk that saw and got there first.
Feeeeck, it’s your one!
Whose naaaame I can’t remember…
O shiiiiiiite, divine.
Mortified, avoid her eyes.
O balls, where’s my purse?
O shite, O shite, divine.
Verse 2:
I had it out when I bought my last present,
I’ll have to traipse the whole way back to there.
I’ll lose my place and then I’ll lose my marbles
Why don’t I shop online, this isn’t fair.
Bridge & Chorus:
I’m next in line, the cashier’s looks would kill me.
I smile weakly, he really doesn’t care.
Faaaall on my knees
O rip apart my handbag
O shiiiite, divine!
There’s my keys and 12 receipts.
O shite, diviiiiiiiine!
O shite, I’ll lose my mind.
Verse 3:
Truly now, I’m on the verge of screaming
When I find my bastarding purse.
I throw the card and my face is beaming
I vow that Christmas is just a curse.
Big finale (throw in a key change for good measure)
A ray of hope, the payment is accepted
I grab my things and run out of the store.
Feeeeck! Where’s the car?
It’s ooon the highest level.
O shiiiiite, divine!
Next year I will shop online.
O IIIII’ll be organiiiiised!
I know, I know that’s lies.
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We Need to Talk About Dougal
I’ve always fancied myself a nice person. I mean, I have my moments and all, but I don’t think that I’m truly deserving of karmic retribution for past indiscretions. So, why has the universe cursed me with Satan himself in the form of a tiny dog?
Yes, the love bubble for my grief purchase has well and truly popped and I only have myself to blame. Buyer’s remorse is real and it’s been personified as the hound from hell – who is currently chewing my kitchen door frame as I type.
I am not alone in my frustrations with this calamitous canine, Conor has hated him from the off and it’s only gotten worse. To say the feeling is mutual is an understatement. My husband is no longer allowed within six feet of me or Dougal will go crazy.
Before you get the RSPCA involved, I feel like I should defend myself:
- I know he’s a puppy
- I know he’s teething (or so I’m reliably informed by my dog-loving cousins)
- I know he’ll calm down eventually
- I know a large part of his on-going ‘bad’ behaviour is down to me being totally rubbish at training him.
I know all of these things and I run this over in my mind as I pick up yet another ripped item of underwear that he’s found somehow.
I can buy my own crotchless pants, Dougal, I don’t need your help with this. Don’t worry, I’m kidding (I prefer proper latex ones).
Stealing my water as I lay, hungover. Jerk.
Why does it have to be my underwear? It’s like he specifically targets just mine – and it’s always my favourite bloody ones. I am not afraid to admit that I have shed a tear over the senseless death of my favourite black bra. The one bra I owned that actually fitted and didn’t make me look like I had one giant boob. Does he care how hard it is to find a damn bra that I like? Does he f*ck. Damn dog.
Giving up is not an option, this dog will not break me. It’s easy for me to vow that because the strangest part of this whole debacle is: I love him. He drives me insane countless times a day but he’s also sweet, loyal and comforting to be around when he eventually calms down. He sits on (yes, on not at) my feet if I’m standing still for longer than thirty seconds, he still tries to sit on my chest like he did when he was tiny and I genuinely like starting and ending my day with a walk on our usual route – when he doesn’t run off to chase cars.
I think I have Stockholm Syndrome.
Perhaps I was a villainous dictator in a previous life to deserve this petulant pooch but he’s family and we don’t give up on family – we do want to drastically change their personality before they pull up more of the carpet on the stairs – but we don’t give up on them.
This is all a learning curve for me and at present these teachable moments feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
He will not win. If I say this enough I may even start to believe it. In the meantime, please excuse me while I stop the dog from using my small child as a teething ring.
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The Alternative Summer Bucket List
This morning, as I trawled the internet in search of something to keep the inmates entertained I came across a few articles claiming to have ‘101 Things to do in the Summer’ or ‘The Ultimate Guide to Beat Summer Boredom’; however, thirty seconds into reading these so-called lists I gave up.
Who are these people? Do they interact with actual humans? Are they pulling these ideas out of their ass? Or the more disturbing question: am I raising little psychopaths who wouldn’t remotely enjoy ‘counting the leaves of your favourite tree’ ( An actual suggestion.)
With this in mind I decided it was time to make my own bucket list for parents at this joyous time of year.
- Get Crafty: Make something fantastic from the increased amount of empty wine bottles found around the house. Wine not your thing? Don’t worry: vodka and gin bottles can work too! No need to wait for Friday or Saturday to have a tipple; if your children are driving you to the edge of sanity have a bottle to take the edge off. You can even make it a fun drinking game: every time they say ‘mummy’ take a slug – not recommended I was hammered by 11am Monday.
- Don’t Neglect Their Education: School may be out but that doesn’t mean their education has to be! Get them to count the amount of grey hairs rapidly appearing in your scalp with each passing day. Keeping on top of that root touch up has never been more fun or soul destroying.
- Keep Active: Didn’t have time for the early morning run you promised to go on? Don’t worry about it. Just get the kids involved. Make sure they get very little sleep the night before so they’re extra needy and spend the day running into different rooms from them until your partner comes home (about eight hours or so). If they cry harder it just means it’s working – think of those abs.
- Go Somewhere New: If you feel like you haven’t got quite enough stress in your day take the kids somewhere new. Thankfully, because it’s summer, everywhere is busy so you’ll have lots of fun trying to park and keep an eye on multiple children through crowds – it’s even more fun when you’re potty training and there’s no toilet within a three mile radius. Good times.
- Get Some Me Time: If you still believe this exists in the world of parenting you’re a damned fool. By all means, book that ‘free’ time and enjoy the residual guilt that follows you around like a bastarding gremlin reminding you that other parents are counting the leaves on their child’s favourite tree while yours hasn’t seen the outside world in a week. Relaxed yet?
- Introduce Your Children to Culture: See how many series of woeful American TV you can get through in the next six weeks. Every time your child craves attention just throw a couple of episodes of Power Rangers in the mix to zombie them out then you can get back to your Gilmore Girls marathon.
- Teach Them About Your Family History: It’s never too early to teach the kids about why their weird uncle doesn’t come to family parties or about the criminal history and alcoholism in the immediate family. Sure, people will cry and things will be awkward but that’s a whole afternoon of entertainment for everyone.
- Try New Food: Get creative in the kitchen and make new dishes that your children will in no way appreciate or eat. Enjoy watching them cry and refuse to even try the food you’ve spent over an hour making just for it to be changed for cereal. Again. Embrace their competitive side and make this a fun new game by seeing who gets Type 2 Diabetes first.
- Spend Some Quality Time Together: If, for some utterly bizarre reason, you don’t feel that 18 hours a day together isn’t enough then when you finally have them in bed sit and watch them sleep so you can kid yourself into thinking this parenting craic isn’t that bad. Angels.
- Take a Holiday: Passport? Holiday booked? Self-loathing when you’re in a swimsuit? Great, now just give the kids to ANYONE and go on holiday for the week and look at pictures of them so it’s like they’re there.
If you were looking for actual suggestions on how to survive summer then this will be in no way helpful, but don’t be fooled: Pinterest won’t help either.
May the odds be ever in your favour.
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Here Comes The Sun
What is it about heat that turns your reasonably well behaved kids into rake-wielding maniacs?
As a redhead I loathe the sun. I avoid it at all costs. The ridiculous decision to spend two weeks in Kenya, on honeymoon, is something I still can’t explain but I can tell you I came back paler than when I left.
I make actual vampire-like hissing noises when I see it. My mother is the opposite: a sun-worshipper and an expert at making you feel guilty if you’re not making the most of good weather by being outdoors from the moment you wake.
In an attempt to ‘make the most’ of the uncharacteristically good weather we are experiencing I forced the three of us out of the house and into the garden. Smothered in factor 50 we emerged bleary-eyed and instantly suspicious of the mysterious yellow orb in the sky.
‘What is that, Mummy?’ said Oliver.
“I don’t know, son, ” I answered.
“Kill it,” demanded Oz. Well, what he actually said was: “blama pfffft” but I knew what he meant.
I brought out all the usual toys to the rug on the grass and enthusiastically brought out the world’s most depressed looking paddling pool. This lopsided piece of witchcraft was a bitch to try and set up. After fifteen minutes of trying to force the stupid little poles in the obviously too small holes I may have flipped out and started giving it a ‘damn good thrashing’ Basil Fawlty style.
“What is that, Mummy?” said Oliver.
“Kill it,” demanded Oz.
Paddling pool assembled and children wrestled into swimming suits – an experience they sobbed through – we were nearly on our way to summer fun. Have you ever tried to squeeze sweaty children into lycra? The suncream didn’t help, they kept slipping out of my grip and making a break for freedom to streak across the garden.
Swimming suits on and a ridiculous amount of floating toys thrown in, they still refused to get in. With my left eye starting to do that highly attractive rage twitch, they were both sat in the water and told to have fun.
Oz obviously then began his attempt to drown his older brother. When he was told to stop he settled for trying to hit him over the head with every single floating toy.
After forty seconds of paddling pool fun they wanted out.
The rest of the afternoon was a mixture of chasing them out of the house every twenty seconds, saying ‘no’ to continuous snack requests and trying to stop Oz from pulling up every vegetable I’ve planted with a giant bloody rake I thought I’d hidden.
By 4pm I gave up.
So, good on you sun worshippers; enjoy it all.
I will be sitting in the dark living room waiting for my heat-activated gremlins to cool down and go back to annoying me for completely different reasons; like how I won’t let them put knives in the plug sockets or smother each other while they sleep.
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A Cautionary Tale
As you sit scrolling through your phone or tablet this evening, perhaps basking in the peace of your children finally being asleep and convincing yourself that kids aren’t complete assholes 90% of the time; I urge you to read a cautionary tale.
This is the tale of a stupid, stupid woman who once sat where you are.
A foolish smug woman, with two boys finally in a nice routine and were loudly snoring upstairs while she had a whole evening of mindless multi-screening between the tv and her phone. If she was feeling particularly sociable she may even look up from the screen from time-to-time to see if her husband was still in the room and breathing. Ah, the good old days.
Aaaaanyway, despite painting a picture of being the perfect wife and mother, this woman had been feeling a bit ‘meh’ about her day-to-day life. She was trying to juggle her job, motherhood, being a friend and wife – and basically felt like she was half-assing the lot.
The woman left for work before her kids were awake. The hour she saw them in the evening was usually monopolised by an argument about which cup their juice had to be in; and don’t even get me started on the laundry situation. Something had to give.
Unfortunately, the woman’s deviant children decided they would make the decision for her. They started being uncharacteristically pleasant to be around for long periods of time. They played nicely together, cried for actually reasons – not just because the younger one was ‘looking at him’ – and generally made the woman think that staying at home fulltime with them would be something to look forward to.
Still on a high from spending time with these alleged angels, the woman sat her husband down and convinced him that they would be fine with one wage and this was absolutely the right thing to do. You should know that this woman’s husband was an idiot also, because he believed her – the fool.
The woman handed in her notice and started daydreaming of summer afternoons with her children; with runs in the morning, sit down breakfasts with silly conversations, sloppy open mouth kisses from the baby because that’s how he rolls and generally time to get to know them as the little people they are fast growing up to be.
Reader, I have a confession: that woman was me.
If I could go back in time, I would shake that stupid woman and tell her to catch a grip. Lads, I’m two weeks in and I’m ready to run for the hills.
Would you like to know how many early morning runs I’ve been on? Zero.
Sit down breakfasts with silly conversations? I get the breakfast alright, then I’m routinely ignored by both of them. At least Oscar manages to throw the dregs of his cereal on the ground just to keep things interesting – but only when I’m already underneath the chair picking up the spoon so the remainder of the milk is sure to get me on the head.
General affection is held to ransom by the younger deviant – he prefers to headbutt or bodyslam.
Finally, getting to know the little people they are growing up to be? Well, if I wanted to know what it feels like to hear the word ‘mummy’ on repeat for 12 hours, in between tantrums and prising dried-up cheerios from the carpet, then consider me educated.
And let’s not forget about the guilt that now chases me round like an unwelcome houseguest. Those care-free evenings that I used to have are now gone. Now, I’m plagued with questions like: how are you going to manage on one wage? Shouldn’t you write a book or something so people think you’re more than just ‘staying home’ all day with two kids? What are you going to do when they go to school? Who the hell is going to hire you?
It’s a joyful time to be alive, kids.
So take heed: don’t spend too much time with your offspring. They might just convince you to jack in the career and get to know them. I’ve done it for you; they’re all cretins – run for your lives.
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S.O.S: Save Our Sanity
I’m currently sitting on my bed looking like a very lifelike extra from ‘The Walking Dead’ because, for the last two weeks, Oz has decided to embark on a sustained campaign of REM sleep deprivation against his parents.
How do I put this nicely? Oz is being a complete asshole.
Apologies to the more sensitive readers, for the remainder of this post I will change the ‘
A’ word to something less harsh in order to appease your gentle disposition. We’ll go with: darling.
Wanting him to sleep more – although obviously is for his own good – is also for very selfish reasons. I miss my evenings. I miss mindlessly scrolling through my phone while sitting on opposite ends of the sofa from my husband therefore qualifying as spending time together.
To say the lack of sleep has had an effect on our relationship is an understatement. Today, I threatened to drown him if he didn’t stop irritating me. Even by my standards that’s a pretty harsh threat – although he can tread water frig all so I don’t think it would be that hard. I’m getting off topic.
I don’t think we have shared a pleasant word with each other in weeks and my daydreams of running off to Dingle with Colin Firth are becoming very detailed.
Last night I sent out an SOS to friends and family with kids for advice and thankfully I had no smug replies of their angels, and how great they were at sleeping from the start. I got sympathy and although I was reading replies with heavy eyes they were appreciated.
In order to get some semblance of rest, by the third time he wakes up in the night we have just relented and let him into our bed (in order to let his older brother sleeping beside him get some kip).
This usually results in either of his parents being head-butted as he throws himself around the bed. Last night, it was my turn. I got a chubby body slam across my face and then he fell soundly asleep. I was so tired and my alarm for the gym was going off in 90 minutes so I just lay there being smothered by a butter ball in a onesie.
See how I managed to brag that I was going to the gym there? Shameless.
Anyway, after another day of being at each other’s throats and threats of drowning exchanged, we decided it was time to renew our conviction and stay true to the course.
Oscar has been moved out into his own room so Oliver can snore his happy little head off while the little DARLING can scream at us from his cot knowing that we are on the other side of the door lying on the hall floor, rocking in the fetal position.
He’s asleep, for now and dinner has been started for the grown ups at 9pm. This is not ok.
And do you think he cares? Let’s see shall we?
What.A.Darling.
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Second Time Around
Oscar is turning one next week.
One. Seriously? Where has that year gone and why am I not skinny yet?
Let’s not pull at that thread.
Anywho, Bosco – as he’s affectionately known – is practically a man now so I figured it was time to engage my sleep-deprived brain and try to write again. Sorry, guys.
Things have been somewhat different this time around. I read numerous blogs telling me that would b
e the case but I didn’t actually believe it. I assumed I was too much of a control freak to be anything other than I was with Bear.
How wrong can you be?
I’m surprised the poor child has made it this far…
My only defence for my relaxed approach to parenting this deviant is: he’s a completely different baby than Oliver.
They are night and day – I want to say in a good way, but that’s just a lie.
The truth is: I live with a psychological terrorist.
Oliver is an emotional wreck at the best of times but he is sweet and kind.
Oscar is the happiest looking kiddo going but has a temper that would rival that of a 1940’s dictator.
He adores Oliver, but adores annoying him more; and his older brother is that much of a pushover he usually relents to whatever Bosco wants.
My lips are chapped from kissing imaginary hurts caused by this miniature menace.
Any hopes that this one would remotely look like me have been well and truly squashed. He’s practically a clone of his father. It’s rather unsettling.
I can’t fight with Conor then look after Oscar, it’s like his face has picked a side of the argument.
Another traitorous baby.
I was cautious about using dummies with Oliver, Oscar practically looks like Maggie Simpson at this stage.
Oliver is a graduate of controlled crying, Oscar broke us by day three.
Oliver was rushed to A&E whenever he had the faintest hint of a cough, Oscar was left to fight off croup until he was admitted to hospital.
Oliver takes himself off to bed and most mornings needs to be woken up, Oscar blinked once. I think.
The steriliser is more of a choice than a necessity.
I’m not coming off too great here, am I?
Judge all you want, I haven’t slept properly in three years.
Oliver finally started teething at 11 months, Oscar has decided he’ll wait a while longer.
Like I said: night and day.
This child has broken me. Any hopes that my husband had of a third are well and truly gone.
These two are my legacy, whatever shape that may be.
Ozzy’s birthday will be a world away from Oliver’s. There will be no bouncy castle (come on, it’s January!), there will be the usual Friday night dinner with a cake. I’ll take an appropriate amount of pictures and not post a message ‘to him’ on Facebook about how ‘proud’ I am of him (boke).
He’s one. His major achievements include: giving his parents *just* enough sleep so they don’t throw themselves off a bridge and managing to do the most horrendous nappies every time we are hungover.
Zozzle (yes, he has many names and is rarely called Oscar) is amazing and was worth the wait but seriously, is the whole ‘dipping the dummy in whiskey so they sleep’ thing still frowned upon? I’m asking for a friend…
