Fifty shades of what the f**k is that doing on my head?

So it’s been another long break between blogs. There’s lots of reasons why and some I might even address in a later post. But mainly because I feel like the material is getting a bit stale. 

Lack of sleep has pretty much been done to death. I look dreadful and have come to the conclusion I always will. My days are filled with yelling “Stop! Gentle hands!” And “Good boy! That is a dog! … No that’s not a dog, that’s a bird/that’s a sheep/that’s a plane/tree/truck/your father.” Which is barely interesting to me so I can’t imagine why it would be interesting to others. 

We’ve had multiple poo-in-bath scenarios I could have talked about. They were pretty gross. But I handled them like a trooper by deftly passing responsibility to my husband. 

And so for months I wrote nothing, though thought about plenty. Struck by how different my life is now compared to pre-Tom. I had a good look at my face in the mirror to see exactly how I’d weathered. And then I was struck by something. There I saw it. Just a month shy of my 30th birthday. Sitting there in a dismal attempt to blend in with the others. 

My first grey hair. 

And let me tell you it has no fucking business being on my head. What the actual fuck? It’s bad enough that I don’t sleep, my skin is disgusting, I have black rings around my eyes, all my clothes have some sort of baby-related stain on them and my belly does this funny jiggly thing that it never used to do before, but now motherhood HAS TURNED MY FUCKING HAIR GREY. Dealing with tiny Satan 24/7, working, wife-ing and just generally surviving should make me a warrior queen, but instead has just made it necessary to spend a fortune correcting nature’s mistake every 4-6 weeks. (If you guys can all ask your grandmothers where I can buy blue hair dye in bulk that’d be great.) Before I know it I’ll be calling people “pet” and becoming hard of hearing. I JUST HAD TO GET NEW GLASSES BECAUSE I’M OLD NOW. Where did it all go wrong?

Some may say this is an overreaction to the prospect of turning 30. They’re probably correct. And this is no doubt an ugly side to me, this vanity. The people who know me in real life are shocked since I’ve had no concern about my appearance before. Quite clearly. But I feel like I’ve been robbed! I might have maintained my precious locks a little while longer, less the stress of a toddler who refused to walk until this week, who consistently whines and remains fussy with food and WHO STILL WON’T FUCKING SLEEP (there I go again.) But I suppose I’ll never know. So I’ll just add it to the list of things to remind Tom about when he starts giving me grief as a teenager. 

It’s a bloody long list. 

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