![]() Like maybe he thought I was cracking under the pressure, mentally broken, and that's why this kid was out of control. ���� "Are you alright?" asked the doctor when he saw us. It was all I could do not to snap his neck. I smiled apologetically, gave him snacks, tried to get him to suck his fingers, sang him a song. Every sod in the doctor's waiting room stared at me like it was my fault. ���� It took twenty minutes to wake Simon up, and he wasn't happy about it. ![]() All in all, I was feeling better than average. And I had menstrual cramps like Bob the Builder was at work in my uterus. I got up and made coffee with my eyes still gummed closed. Nearly did, except the alarm went off at 7:30 reminding me about Simon's appointment with the doctor. We lay next to each other in bed for another hour, staring at the ceiling, hating ourselves for not being asleep, until H said, "Fuck it," and went to work. I felt like jumping out of the second-floor window. ���� An hour later Simon was still crying. Simon cried and cried, but the textbooks say you've got to let them. – at which point the Mickey got relocated to the top of the wardrobe. ![]() I must have heard that fucking jingle a hundred times yesterday, and again at one a.m. ���� You're good at this, you're doing it right When you put the little football in its outstretched hands, it sings: It's a Mickey Mouse with a little plastic football. ![]()
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