10.30am: I admit defeat. Every. Single. Time. I say today will be different. That they wont be hypnotised by some sort of electronic device. But the truth is; I'm down to my last Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, I've missed breakfast (again), and I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a shower in peace.
In a world abundant with parental literature we're constantly nose deep in the latest book; trying to figure out if, our barely 24-hour old baby, is a Textbook Baby, Spirited Baby or an outright Grumpy Baby. It can all be a bit daunting with so much conflicting material at our fingertips. Sometimes you just need to ask someone who has lived to tell the tale.
“I'm sorry, but we’ve had to clear the entire surgery schedule. Your husband has done more damage to his hand than expected and we’re not sure when he’ll be out. You’ll be able to see him once he’s woken up. Come back in an hour.” 6 and a half hours later I saw my husband being wheeled across the ward, groggy as hell and arm suspended in a foam sling. In the battle of man vs food, the avocado won in a Game of Thrones worthy slice to his right hand.